


Baryte Rose

by o0katiekins0o



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Confrontations, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, F/M, Native American Character(s), Past Relationship(s), Summerteen Romance, Teen Angst, Teen Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-01
Updated: 2016-03-28
Packaged: 2018-05-24 02:03:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6137521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/o0katiekins0o/pseuds/o0katiekins0o
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His mother had been offered a contract with Boeing, leading a team of engineers in designing and building jet turbines. His father took a position as an adjunct Anthropology professor at the University of Tulsa. Mycroft had long ago flown the nest leaving his younger brother to languish in the plains with no one but their parents for company. And so it went that someone as predisposed to unfriendliness as he found himself trapped in The Big Friendly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the fic I began writing for SBBC. I've been in the weeds with writing lately and I have quite a bit of this done so I thought I'd share some of it with you all.  
> This fic was beta'd by the ever-brilliant OhAine but all the mistakes are mine.

Scales of red clay dotted with sparse patches of dry grass, yellow and sun-bleached under a cloudless blue sky. The sun a heavy orb bearing down on him like an unforgiving eye. Why did he think this would be a good idea? Something about old stomping grounds. The phrase 'stomping grounds' had him imagining the pounding hooves of stampeding Bison that once roamed all over these plains. He distantly wished to hear them, or maybe he only wished to hear thunder. Thunder always meant rain and MY GOD why was it SO HOT!? 

He remembered this place having much more interesting weather patterns. What was the old saying? 'If you don't like the weather in Oklahoma, just wait five minutes.' Of course he only lived here a few months at a time during his summer and holiday intervals from Harrow.

His mother had been offered a contract with Boeing, leading a team of engineers in designing and building jet turbines. His father took a position as an adjunct Anthropology professor at the University of Tulsa. Mycroft had long ago flown the nest leaving his younger brother to languish in the plains with no one but their parents for company. And so it went that someone as predisposed to unfriendliness as he found himself trapped in The Big Friendly- for a little less than half the year, anyway. 

Summers full of tornadoes and flooding, winters that couldn't decide between frigid or temperate so it seemed to settle on doing neither particularly well, or for particularly long. There was also that autumn after he'd been sent down. But he spent the majority of that in rehab. He hadn't done much taking in of the air at that time. 

"I can't believe you actually lived here." She sighed stretching out on the bed of the pick-up they'd rented. "I just can't picture it. What did you do to keep from getting bored? Experiment on cows?" Her cherry-stained lips formed a lop-sided grin across her face.

He favoured her with a pointed look. She knew very well what type of things the young, foolish Sherlock had gotten up to when he was bored.

"Er... besides, you know..." She cleared her throat awkwardly and slumped her shoulders. "I just meant... sorry, nevermind..." The last sentence trailed off into a whisper and she sat up, preparing to edge off the flat-bed. 

He placed his hand on her shoulder to stay her but realized the oddness of such an action and chose to deflect. "This is Oklahoma, not Hazzard County." He gestured to the plaid pearl snap shirt she had tucked into her very short denim cut-offs. She'd even gone as far as to arrange her hair into two long plaits. Fortunately she hadn't gone in for the full effect and worn cowboy boots, instead she settled on her well-worn low-top sneakers. 

She cocked her head to the side in a expression of confusion, looking down to examine what he'd meant. It seemed to hit her out of nowhere. She gave a whooping laugh and fixed her big doe eyes on him. "Do my ears deceive me? Or did Sherlock Holmes just make a pop-culture reference?"

He turned his face down to hide his smile. "Calm down, it's a nearly 40 year old pop-culture reference, hardly a need for hysterics."

Molly gave no quarter to that answer. She nudged her shoulder into his, beaming merrily up at him. "Never pegged you for a Dukes fan."

"Dad was the fan. My own exposure was merely... incidental." He rebutted. 

"Oh, I'm sure." Molly nodded facetiously. 

"Well you have already noted that there isn't much to do out here." He waved vaguely at their surroundings. "And drug users are renowned for their telly-watching prowess."

"So that's a 'no' to the cow experiments then?" Molly tittered, trying to keep the conversation light.

"Well there was the brief foray into cow-tipping. But only to prove that it is impossible."

"No it isn't!" Molly responded in disbelief. Getting pissed and tipping cows over while they slept was supposed to be some kind of rural adolescent rite of passage. She wasn't certain of the details, as her childhood environs were decidedly more urban, but it was a thing. It had to be. She'd seen it in films.

"Of course it is. Firstly, cows don't sleep standing, horses, do. If you're lucky enough to sneak up on one at night, without it running away first of course, you'd need the force of approximately thirteen hundred newtons to tip an unmoving, non-resistant cow. However, once you take into account the cow's body mass and ability to brace itself it would require something upwards of five times that amount of force. You'd have better luck tipping over a car." He crossed his arms over his chest with a smug grin.

"Well, then I guess I'll have to take it off my bucket list. Damn! And I was really hoping to get to that one while I was here." She smirked cheekily back at him before narrowing her eyes on the horizon.

"Is that them?" She pointed at a red dust cloud leaving a billowing trail over the distant stretch of dirt road they had been staking out.

Sherlock squinted in the direction she was looking, then raised the binoculars hanging from his neck to his eyes to confirm her suspicions that they had finally caught up to the people they'd staked out for all afternoon. He nodded in confirmation and hopped off the open tailgate, then helped her down and slamming it shut. 

“Pay dirt.” Molly quipped and Sherlock groaned at the pun, more on general principle than actual distaste of her humor.

Molly was unbothered by his rubber stamp reaction; she was accustomed to his aloofness that she now knew was more of a reflex than a genuine attempt to be prickly. She knew better than to let it abate her enthusiasm. No, instead she doubled down, bouncing excitedly toward the truck.

"Let's go, Boss Hog. Looks like them ol' Duke boys are at it again." Molly didn't even try at the Southern accent; she knew perfectly well she'd have made a hash of it. But she would have sworn, hand to God, she heard Sherlock chuckle as they both entered their respective doors into the truck. 

"I wasn't trying to dress like Daisy Duke, by the way." Molly added as she engaged her seat belt with a click. 

"Oh?" Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at her. "Tell that to the rest of those jeans." He quipped before putting the truck into reverse.

 

 

* * *

 

 

-Days Earlier-

Sherlock grumbled at the straightened knocker on the door of 221, in no mood for whatever, mind-numbingly boring task his brother came to recruit him to do. He had half a mind to turn on his heels that very instant and hide out in Molly’s flat. In fact, that was a capital idea indeed. He resolved to do just that, stepping to the kerbside with a raised arm to hail a cab.

A cab stopped before him seconds later, he slid in the back seat giving the driver Molly’s address and tipping ahead of time to insure expedient departure.

A quarter of an hour later he found himself outside her building, paying the driver and then strolling toward the front buzzer.

 She had given him a key after several occasions wherein he’d buzzed her flat at a time she’d deemed “ungodly”, and thus refused to buzz him in, leaving him no choice but to wake every neighbour on her floor. So many complaints about her guest flooded the resident’s association, they gave her an ultimatum: end the menace, or find a new flat. 

She opted for the far more practical solution of giving him a key.

Sherlock strolled toward her door with smug self-satisfaction at having, yet again, evaded his brother’s endless entreaties to perform duties to Queen and country. He unlocked her door still grinning only to enter her flat and find her laying out her best service for not one, but two very familiar guests. She looked up at him, eyes wide as if she were begging him for a lifeline.

“Brother dear.” Mycroft greeted with a sidelong glance.

Sherlock’s sight hopped from his, (ugh!) remarkably self-satisfied and (tragically) one stone lighter brother. “Mycroft.” he responded, before shifting his gaze to the much older man smiling warmly and thanking Molly for bringing out a tray of biscuits. “Dad.” Sherlock greeted, eyeing his father’s interaction with Molly carefully.

“Will.” His father gave a slanted smile. “How’ve you been, my boy? You never call. Your mother worries.”

“Fine, Dad. Everything is fine just like it was yesterday and every day always until the end of time. If ever anything is un-fine, rest assured, you will be notified. If that’s all you needed, visit over. Ta-ta.” Sherlock hurriedly reach toward his father, gesturing as if he meant to hoist him from the sofa seat. 

“Sherlock!” Molly huffed, incensed at his seemingly cruel dismissal of his own father. Therein lay the insidiousness of Mycroft’s stratagem; corner him in his hiding place and spring an ambush. Molly’s presence would insure his best behavior. The addition of his father was a psychological tactic, no doubt, a fatherly presence to predispose Molly to Mycroft’s cause.

A bit of dirty pool, that. What else could one expect from the Ice Man?

Sherlock sighed in defeat. “Why are you here, Dad? Can we skip past all the niceties and just get to why you came in the first place?”

His father fixed onto him with a hundred yard stare, grey-blue eyes that shone with the weary wisdom of a long and fulfilling life. The man had precisely no patience with his thirty eight year old son who regularly elected to behave like an eleven year old. “No, William. You will sit down and have tea and biscuits. You will thank Dr. Hooper for providing the tea and biscuits, and we will have a pleasant chat before we get down to business. It’s proper form, and your visits are already so infrequent. Let’s just kill two birds, shall we?”

Sherlock huffed dramatically, rearing his head back and tromping to the sofa where he dropped beside his father.

“That is Dr. Hooper’s seat. Shove down.” His father ordered.

Sherlock responded with another sophomoric huff but complied nonetheless.

“Really, Mr. Holmes, you can just call me Molly.” She added meekly, laying out a small tray of finger sandwiches beside the biscuits.

“Then you must call me Sig. Everyone does, apart from these two, of course.” He gestured to his sons, one perched on the edge of his seat, the very definition of proper carriage. And the other slouched into the sofa, arms crossed over his chest, legs spread in a shameful sprawl.

Molly giggled, blushing to her hairline and casting her eyes downward. “Alright, Sig.” She agreed.  She stood awkwardly in front of them for an undignified amount of time before she remembered herself, looking down at the tea she’d laid out on the coffee table. “Uhm, I’ll just get the-“

Siger chuckled warmly, “Oh have a seat dear. This is enough, more than plenty.” He assured her with a kind smile that practically made her melt.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He couldn’t tell which bothered him most, that he’d been predictable enough in his pattern of hiding for this trap to work, or his father shining the Siger Holmes charm ray on his pathologist.

In the end it was neither. The worst part, the absolute most galling thing, had been the way Molly blushed and tittered so predictably. Oh Mycroft will pay for this.  Immediately he began strategizing ways of sabotaging his diet.

“So Sherlock,” Siger addressed after Molly settled between them, “Myc tells me, Molly here, is your… “, Siger looked to the right attempting to recall.

“I believe the word I used was ‘companion’.” Mycroft supplied, although still wincing at the affectionate use of the name ‘Myc’.

“Oh. No. I’m no John Watson. But I’ll do, in a pinch, I suppose.” Molly gave a self-deprecating chuckle. “I’m just an associate of Sherlock’s. Well… uhm… friend, really.” She amended when she saw the face Sherlock pulled.  She reached for one of the sandwiches she’d laid out just to have an excuse to stop talking.

“Yes. Molly friend, Siger father, worlds collide, it’s all too astounding for words. Is this chat over yet? You lot have been droning on for hours.” He whined theatrically.

“Sherlock!” Molly admonished once again only to be quelled by Siger’s hand on her shoulder.

“It’s fine, dear. At least we know he’s not filtering. It’s a relief to know you have friends other than John Watson or tramps you bribe to drug pregnant women and seniors, Sherlock. Of course in my time, it meant another thing entirely when a gentleman was in possession of a key to a lady’s flat. “

Molly coughed around a mouthful of sandwich, coloring, she reached for her tea to swallow down the remnants of her sandwich, and her shock.

“That’s not a judgment, Molly.” Siger said with a placating hand on her shoulder. “Our Sherlock is no stranger to imposing on a pretty girl’s hospitality, are you Sherlock?”

Sherlock slumped, his shoulders up to his ears as if he was trying to block out his father’s words. He shifted his eyes to Mycroft who was clearly pleased with how this conversation was unfolding.

“He has impeccable taste, once they’ve rid themselves of him they tend to go on to do great things.” Siger jibed. “Which reminds me; I recently got a call from old Chuck Mankiller. Your Mother and I missed him during our last visit but he made a special point to catch me up on all the happenings with the tribe.” Siger did not break eye contact with his son who seemed to be attempting to will himself smaller.

Sherlock’s eyes darted from side to side, looking for help and finding only a visibly confused, but interested Molly and a disgustingly pleased Mycroft, content to watch his brother twist in the proverbial wind.

His father continued. “Winifred has been elected Chief. Skinny Winnie, can you imagine? Of course Chuck and Claire are chuffed to bits.”

Sherlock sighed. “How nice for them, I’m certain you’ve expressed adequate felicitations.” He added dismissively, reaching for a chocolate finger. “I just love these, don’t you? Mmm!” Sherlock made a production of enjoying the biscuit in full view of his brother who was clearly struggling with the temptation.

Mycroft shot his brother an angry glare, despite licking his lips.

“I am… so confused.” Molly blurted out, before clamping her mouth shut, nervously fidgeting with her hands in her lap.

“My parents spent a number of years working and living in Oklahoma. There they made many friends, with whom they still maintain contact and visit several times a year on their line dancing circuit. One of whom, has a daughter who was apparently elected chief of the Cherokee tribe. Does that clear things up for you?” Sherlock rambled off, obviously happy to finally be in command of the conversation

“No.” Molly answered definitively. “No. If anything that all makes it worse”, Molly’s voice gained strength, beginning to get a hold of herself after the surprise of playing impromptu hostess to two generations of Holmes men.

“Which part still confounds you?” Sherlock asked with his eyebrows raised and a hint of condescension, but still slightly less than usual so she let it slide.

“I’m still stuck on the part where all of you came here to have this conversation.” Molly answered, turning to Siger quickly, “No offense intended, it’s been so lovely meeting you I’m just… just…” She shook her head and half-whispered, “Why are you _here_?” Molly’s inflection went up at the end with a breathy pseudo-squeak. She was covered in a nervous flush fanning her hands anxiously in broad, sweeping gestures, indicating her lack of understanding most illustratively.  

At this moment Mycroft gave his smuggest smile. He leaned comfortably against the high-backed chair, swinging a leg to cross over his knee, resting his linked hands in his lap. “Yes Sherlock, please tell her why we’re here.”

“I would love to, as soon as I know for myself. It’s on our father’s insistence that we’re having this ‘pleasant chat’ before he tells me why he’s really here.” Sherlock answered with a casual shrug, as if he could bodily shrug away the tedium of this whole situation.

“I don’t think it’s the content of the conversation she’s concerned with as much as the venue.” His father added helpfully to Molly’s relief.   The old man flashed his reassuring smile at her, patting her hands in her lap before she could begin wringing them once again.

Sherlock floundered for a moment, looking down at his shoes as if he would find the words written on them. Siger shook his head.

“I’ve called, written e-mails, sent letters, faxes- practically every means of communication available to humanity besides carrier pigeon and he’s ignored it all. Travel can be burdensome at my age, and I didn’t want to slog it all the way here only to have Sherlock duck out at the last moment. So I entreated Myc’s help to provide the cloak and dagger necessary to lure him here.” Siger was laying it on thick with his voice in the cadence of a proper tale of woe.

Sherlock exhaled loudly as if he were deflating and threw his arms in the air, “Oh for Christ’s sake can you please spare us the ‘prodigal son’ speech. I’m not on drugs. I’m not dead. I’m not in hospital. And I’m certainly not accompanying anyone to the West End, mummy included. What more could we have to discuss, dad? Winifred Mankiller? Like everything, I’d already worked it out before you told me, care to know how?” His knees bobbed up and down restlessly where he sat.

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes, no one is interested in watching you show off!” Siger snapped.

Molly gaped, certainly comprehending that a situation compelling a parent to use their child’s full name must be quite severe, particularly a full name that was as big a mouthful as Sherlock’s.

Mycroft’s smile only widened, he was enjoying himself entirely too much. Oh what were biscuits in comparison to the deliciousness of this moment as his brother shrunk at his father’s use of not one, but two, of his middle names.

“THEN WHY ARE YOU HERE!?” Sherlock shouted, standing to his feet and crossing the room toward the window, looking out to avoid meeting the eyes of the people in the room following his outburst.

“Because you’re here, of course, one of your… Oh what’s the word you use? Bolt holes. Though I can’t imagine what it is you’re bolting from…” Siger slid on his readers, pulling a small moleskin notebook similar to the one Mycroft carries from his pocket, peering at a small page in the center, “My, my four times a week! Quite the imposition you’ve been, Sherlock.” Siger tsked at his son.

“Oh! Move on already, dad! I’m an arsehole, I get it. You’re here because of Winnie, yes? Tell me why. Sometime today, ideally before supper, otherwise Molly will feel obliged to cook for the both of you and Mycroft’s diet can’t afford the indulgence. Not to mention you’d run the risk of being the pot that called the kettle black with regard to imposing upon Molly’s impeccable hospitality.”

“It’d be no trouble really; I’ve just done the shopping.” Molly added, truly out-Britishing herself, offering to prepare supper for a group of men who’d invaded her home with no prior notice. Sherlock sighed at Molly’s unwillingness to belay her hospitality for a single damned moment so this appalling encounter could end already.

Siger shook his head and answered quietly. “Thank you, dear, but no. I know from experience what sort of effort it takes to keep the cupboards from going bare with Sherlock raiding them so frequently.” He assured her, getting to the heart of the issue before Molly could insist, “Winifred has asked after you. She… They need help.”

“They?” Molly asked. “You mean, the-the…uhm… tribe?” Her eyes bounced between the three men occupying nearly perfect triangular points throughout her sitting room. 

“Yes. The Cherokee possess several hectares of federally protected lands throughout Eastern Oklahoma. Beautiful land! Oh I used to take Sherlock along to fish and camp.” Sherlock sneered at the memory while Siger’s expression went faraway, as if he was looking ahead to a distant shore. “So pristine, unspoilt, the cross timbers, the river… oh it’s just… it’s like Heaven.”

Sherlock raised an incredulous brow at his father’s description. It was clear he did not share his father’s enthusiasm for the place, although ‘pristine and unspoilt’ weren’t really words that described Sherlock’s usual areas of interest.

“I suppose there is some new soulless conglomerate threatening the land yet again? You and your sandaled, patchouli-soaked colleagues have always managed to handle such intrusions well enough in the past. What’s changed?” Sherlock feigned disinterest but was edging toward the center of the room. 

“The law has changed, Sherlock. These corporations have powerful lobby groups and wield considerable influence over-“Siger began but was, once again, cut off by Sherlock.

“Boring! This is Mycroft’s area of expertise.” Sherlock spoke as he turned back toward the window in the same way he would dismiss a potential client who had failed to be sufficiently fascinating in his own sitting room, back at Baker street.

“This matter is outside my scope, Sherlock.” Mycroft inserted.

“Not your division, is it?” Sherlock snapped his head in his brother’s direction with a smug smirk that made the taller man’s nose go red with anger.

Molly’s mouth dropped open in shock, clearly understanding Sherlock’s implication.

Mycroft narrowed his eyes, lacing his fingers together in his lap.  “On the contrary, brother mine, I’m putting my best man on it.” Mycroft answered with his grinchiest grin.

Sherlock frowned deeply, lips curling together in resigned anger but said nothing. The subject was closed apparently, he’d been conscripted. He could continue to protest but observing the consternation on his father’s face, he understood any resistance would prove merely for show and, one way or another, he’d be on a flight bound for the American Midwest sooner or later.  If Molly had known that Oklahoma was called “The Sooner State” she’d have made one of her fantastically terrible jokes just then.

“Fine.” Sherlock agreed. “But you’re making the arrangements for us.” Sherlock said authoritatively.

“Of course.” Mycroft sighed.

“And you will make certain Molly’s position at Barts will remain secure while she is en absentia, no point in her using her vacation time for this nonsense.”

“What?!” Molly could have spat and embarrassed herself in front of everyone had that statement been made even a half second earlier. “I can’t go with you, Sherlock!”

“Why the hell not?!” Sherlock asked impatiently.

“I can’t just drop everything and follow you on a case. I’ve got responsibilities. I’ve got a cat… somewhere.” She looked around for Toby who was no doubt hiding underneath some piece of furniture or other, and most likely had been from the very moment he realized strangers had come calling.

“And as I’ve already discussed with Mycroft, he will take care of whatever it is you require. Rest assured.” He added.

“But…” Molly was fumbling for an argument but held off as Siger rose from his seat beside her.

“Well my dear, thank you for your kindness. You’ve been especially lovely, particularly considering the current conditions. I can’t wait to meet again under better… circumstances.” He held her small hand in his large, weathered one, bending down to grace her knuckles with a kiss.

She blushed again, biting the inside of her lips in order to tame her widening smile, the one she always worried made her look goofy. It didn’t, of course, but self-consciousness being what it is, narrow in perspective, Sherlock supposed she couldn’t help it.

Still holding her by the hand, Siger used it to draw her nearer to him, pulling her into a warm hug. “Thank you very much for your help, Doctor Hooper.”, The old man said softly to the top of her head before releasing her, arching his proud brow at his son who turned his back to disappear further into Molly’s flat.

Mycroft simply gave her a slanted look and a terse nod, his eyes glowed warm nonetheless as he exited. Molly followed them toward the door, waving at their backs as they disappeared into the corridor outside.

***

Molly sighed slumping against the door, her heart fluttering and cheeks burning from the residual excitement of Siger’s well-meaning flirtations. She supposed Sherlock had to have gotten it from somewhere. But at least Siger came by his charm honestly.

She didn’t have long to recover, for as soon as she took, what felt like her first full breath in hours, she heard a thumping in the direction of her bedroom. She gathered her strength to approach Sherlock and whatever fresh hell he was intent on heaping upon her life now.

“Fresh Hell” was accurate as she entered her bedroom to find Sherlock’s hand in her knickers drawer, examining her undergarments carefully before tossing them into her suitcase that he’d lain open on top of her bed.

“Sherlock! What are you-!?” Molly was unable to complete the sentence before Sherlock cut her off.

“For a practical woman, Molly you have a startling lack of practicality in your selection of undergarments.” He noted casually while holding up a lacy scrap of red nothing he’d plucked from the drawer. In spite of what seemed like a judgment against her underwear, he took a moment assessing it before adding it to the pile he’d formed in her suitcase.

“What are you doing?!” Molly bit out. Finally regaining her faculties after this, her latest in an overwhelming series of shocks, she lodged herself between the detective and her dresser.

He paused, looking up at her with a pointed look. His brows were furrowed in deep consternation, lip quirked in the corner to give her the most annoyed of expressions. “Packing you up, of course, Molly! We are leaving the country, and as much as I like the idea of you buying all new things on Mycroft’s expense accounts we really don’t have the time. He’ll be texting me flight details any minute.” Seemingly satisfied with his selections of her knickers he turned toward her closet, plucking garments from hangers and tossing them behind him. Unerringly, they landed inside the suitcase without him even glancing back.

She watched as one-by-one all her most unprofessional looking clothes fell into the luggage with a soft ‘fwap’. Shorts, tank tops, her worn jeans with the holes at the top of the thighs and landed into a short pile on her bed.

“At least let me pack myself, Sherlock.” Molly huffed, sorting through the pile of appallingly casual clothing.

“No. You cannot be trusted on this matter. You have no comprehension of Oklahoma in summer. If I let you choose your own clothing you’ll be hospitalized for heat exhaustion within five minutes of stepping off the plane. Your usual daily wardrobe of thick khaki trousers and piles of wool could literally be your undoing, Molly.”

She heard him smiling at his rather morbid death-by-wool analysis, but resigned herself to his greater knowledge in this area. He had experienced it first-hand after all and warmer climes were not something she was at all accustomed to, having spent most of her life within the confines of the greater London area. 

“Is it very hot?” Molly asked meekly stepping toward him.

“Not the heat, so much.” Sherlock paused with one of her t-shirts in each hand as he answered. “Well it’s that too, but really it’s the humidity. It’s so palpable; it’s like walking through soup. A sort of… human soup.” Sherlock shuddered at his own analogy. “You’ll also need to acquire something in the way of sun cream. All that water in the air makes one feel a bit like an ant underneath a magnifying glass. It feels as though you may very well burst into flames, or at least you’ll want to.”

Molly pulled a disgusted face, “Well don’t try to oversell me on the place.” Her tone was flat and unamused.

“I wasn’t aware I had to ‘sell’ you on it, Molly. Everything will be taken care of in your absence. Your feline will be looked after. You’re not attempting to stop me from packing for you; obviously you’ve resigned yourself to the fact of it.” He seemed to decide that neither t-shirt was appropriate and dropped them on the floor before reaching into her closet to evaluate more of her clothing. 

Molly huffed before sitting on the bed beside the, slowly filling, suitcase. “Maybe, but I don’t have to spend the entire flight dreading it either.” She murmured her arms crossed over her chest, rubbing the tops of her arms in a gesture of self-comfort while chewing away at the corner of her lip anxiously. “I mean… I don’t know what I expected.” She chuckled darkly to herself. “It’s not as though you were going to swan in here and whisk me off on holiday.”

As she spoke Sherlock bunched some fabric in his hand and tossed it behind him, landing perfectly at the top of the pile in the suit case. Molly looked down. It was her red and white polka-dotted two-piece she’d bought online on impulse. She had worn it once to try it on, but she’d had very few opportunities to wear it, and when they came along she didn’t have the nerve. It was a bit too Bettie Page, with its high waist and halter top, whereas Molly typically fell closer to Betty Ford on the fashion spectrum.

“What will I need that for?” Molly asked, now truly worried that swimming would be an integral part of solving this case. She was not an especially strong swimmer.

“As I’ve mentioned, it’s quite hot there. You may find occasion to wear it, especially since we’ll most likely be staying very near a river.” Sherlock almost grumbled. His text alert chimed and he turned to her waving his phone screen at her. “Well what do you know? Who could have guessed that?” Sherlock sneered thumbing the text screen and firing back with a, no doubt, endlessly snarky remark.

“Sorry?” Molly asked, finding herself once again chasing after Sherlock’s meandering train of thought.

“Mycroft’s PA just texted me the information for our accommodations, prior to our flight details, mind you.” Sherlock sighed heavily, “He’s booked us at the War Eagle.” Sherlock said as if that answered everything. “Dad’s idea, no doubt.”  He huffed when his text alert chimed again.

“Ehm… Is it… nice?” Molly probed, still unsure of the significance of this detail.

“Well that very strongly depends on how much you enjoy river sport and the sort of kitschy western décor one would expect to find in a Will Rogers inspired nocturnal emission.” He said, his thumbs tapping punishingly against the phone’s screen as if he were arming himself to spar with his brother via SMS.

Molly shrugged. “That sounds… fun, actually. Would we have time to go on the river?”

Sherlock stopped texting, looking up from the screen to give her his inscrutable look that always made Molly feel as if she were under an X-Ray. He seemed to be searching her for something Molly couldn’t quite place.

She laughed nervously. “Right, probably won’t have time.”

Sherlock blinked twice then said, “If you would like. When the case is finished, I will take you down river. We’ll make a day of it. It will be… fun?”

“Really?!” Well that was a shock, “You seemed a bit… put out at the thought before.”

Seeming to abandon his text argument for now, he dropped his phone into his left hand pocket. He cleared his throat and pouted adorably as he shaking his head and adding. “My objection was purely out of consideration for your… sensibilities. I was going to insist Mycroft change our booking to something more… suitable to your comfort, perhaps something with more in the way of amenities.”

“No, I like it. It would be something to look forward to, anyway.” She stood, walking toward her dresser she switched out some of the racier underwear for the more practical ones Sherlock seemed to have bypassed in his hurry.  She grabbed socks and a few other small items from her dresser, adding them to the pile. “I mean when else will I get the chance to visit Oklahoma? I might as well get the authentic experience.”

She could have sworn she saw the hint of a smile grace his lips as he returned to his analysis of her wardrobe’s overall suitability for the case.

She felt his eyes on her as she exited the room to gather her toiletries, trying not to examine the offer of an excursion that had no connection to the case. She chose, instead, to accept it for what it was, a sort of olive branch after practically abducting her from her life to alight her on a case that was unlikely to offer any opportunity to exercise her expertise.

He simply liked having someone on his side. Someone to listen and bounce ideas off of, she had given him a standing offer to perform such duties years ago. He’d taken her up on that offer more and more often, since the arrival of the newest Watson. She shouldn’t have really complained.

Molly felt a throb of guilt at the thought that she may have made Sherlock feel as though his company was not enough of an incentive for her to join him. It was, but she greedily wanted more. She sighed to herself, shaking her head as she entered her loo.

She looked at her array of toiletries, choosing to forgo bringing soaps and lotions, such things would be available in Oklahoma she was certain. She’d simply make a detour to whatever shop the state had, surely there would be something rather like a Boots there. Instead she merely packed her most essential cosmetics, deodorant and other sundries in a small travel bag beneath her sink she could later add to the suitcase Sherlock was still in the midst of packing for her.

When she returned to her bedroom she found him standing stock straight beside the bed with his hands held behind him, following her with his eyes as she returned with her bathroom necessities, and adding them to the meager pile Sherlock had made with her wardrobe inside the open luggage.

“The bad news is the attire you’re currently in possession of is mostly unsuitable for this case.” He provided this statement after noticing her raised brow at the very minimal number of garments he’d deemed worthy. She actively tried not to look indignant at the messy pile of rejects he’d left at the opening of her wardrobe.

His tone indicated he was not surprised. “The good news is I am in possession of Mycroft’s black card. A bit of shopping wouldn’t go amiss.” He gave a devious smirk and added, “We’ll make a proper Okie of you yet, Molly Hooper.”

At that he shut the lid of the suitcase and zipped it with a flourish. Hauling it up in one arm and offering the other to escort her from her flat.

Exiting through the sitting room, Molly gave a last look behind her to see Toby leaping to his place on her sofa back. She gave him a quick pat. “Behave yourself, little beastie.” Molly ordered playfully.

“Will Mycroft be sending someone round to feed him?” She asked looking up at Sherlock.

“Doubtful.” He answered.  

Molly opened her mouth to protest for the safety of her cat when he cut her off. “He will most likely be boarded. Whatever kennel is used by foreign dignitaries and the like. Fear not, your animal will not want for spoiling.” He assured her. “In fact, he may not want to return home once this is over.”

Molly favoured Toby with a glance, his only response was to blink up at her with his great green eyes and begin cleaning his genitals.

Molly chuckled softly, “I suppose his tastes could use a bit of refinement.” She gave him a final pat, the cat raised he head and watched as his owner disappeared with her Byronic intruder.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock uses the long flight to contemplate the past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning, Molly doesn't feature very heavily in this chapter. Most of this takes place in the mid 90's. Enjoy!

In the car, en route to Baker Street to gather his own belongings, Sherlock considered Molly’s words:

_‘I don’t have to spend the entire flight dreading it either.’_

He wasn’t exactly certain as to why, but that statement stung somewhat. Perhaps he had lain it on a bit thick with the whole “human soup” analogy, but she is aware he has a tendency to be dramatic. He could hardly be blamed if she took his turn of phrase too literally. And yet, he found himself regretting it somewhat.

Some part of him that he did not care to examine really wanted her to enjoy this trip with him. He’d never been there with anyone other than his own parents, and Mycroft, occasionally.

It had never before occurred to Sherlock to consider a companion’s enjoyment when undergoing a case. However, it hadn’t ever occurred to him to acquire a companion before John. And John really didn’t require much in the way of convincing to involve himself in intrigue.  To the contrary, he’d normally need to be dragged away by wild horses.

But sweet little Molly, being non-confrontational by her very nature, would of course require something in the way of incentive in order to cooperate fully. He thought to himself that, while difficult, this had the potential to prove to be an interesting mental exercise.

He carefully considered his options as he piled t-shirts and lightweight trousers into his own luggage. He weighed the pros and cons of each intersecting activity available during their stay.

He did a significant amount of research as they wove through London traffic toward the airport in one of Mycroft’s government vehicles. He would prefer if Molly thought of this as a sort of working holiday. That was something people did wasn’t it? He browsed the internet on his mobile considering the tourist attractions Oklahoma had on offer and found him coming up wanting. He wasn’t certain, but he didn’t think she would find stockyards very interesting. And a basketball game (professional or otherwise) didn’t seem like something that would appeal to the well-read cat owner.  

By his estimate, the case would only take a few days to wrap up, that left a more than adequate amount of time for him to arrange something in the way of an amusing jaunt, aside from the promised river expedition. Mycroft had not yet booked their return trip, no doubt leaving it up to Sherlock to determine when such a thing would be necessary.

Naturally they had priority boarding, and were escorted to their seats before the other passengers. Sherlock smirked, mentally patting himself on the back at Molly’s wide-eyed awe of the array of amenities offered once they arrived at their seats. Clearly, she’d never experienced a first class flight before. Fitting, that it would also be her first Trans-Atlantic journey, luckily Mycroft hadn’t chosen to be spiteful and book them in economy, likely also at their father’s insistence.

She’d lit up with excitement when he offered to exchange seats so she could sit beside the window, her face nearly pressed against the glass as she watched London disappearing beneath them and turn into a vast blue-black sea capped with white, cresting waves.

The nature of their voyage did not lend itself to a direct flight (unfortunately) they would have a layover in Chicago, hopefully enough time for her to squeeze in a nap and acclimate herself to the time difference. He’d have to remain aware that average people tended to experience jet-lag and it would be something not far from their departure time (CST) once they arrived at their first layover.

When the flight attendant pushed the drinks cart near, Molly asked for a strong drink and a bag of nuts, “Or crisps or whatever… anything really.” as she had been compelled to skip supper in their haste to get the trip underway.

Of course she was hungry. Another thing he would have to consider during this case, people had a tendency to consume multiple meals on a daily basis. With John, he’d merely let the man fend for himself. But John had been a soldier; the man could make a meal of a swarm of scorpions, not that he wouldn’t complain the entire time, but still.  He added another note in his mental margins to add restaurants to his excursions.

Sherlock was relieved when the flight attendant informed her that an in-flight meal would be served soon but he could certainly bring her something until that time, if she would prefer. Molly simply smiled her typical warm smile and told the man she was capable of waiting for now. Of course, this made Sherlock feel quite pressed upon so he asked for a bag of pretzels, offering them to Molly as gallantly as he was able as soon as the cart squeaked past.

“Oh!” She grinned, biting her lip in that irritatingly adorable manner of hers, “Thank you, Sherlock!” She tore the bag open munching them daintily. She exhaled through her nose delighting greatly in such a small pleasure.

“Probably shouldn’t drink this on an empty stomach anyhow.” She giggled, waving the small glass that held her cocktail.

The remainder of the flight was, thankfully, uneventful. Molly put in headphones and retrieved a thick, well-worn paperback: Little Women.  She’d clearly read it dozens of times over, and he knew for a fact she was in possession of an e-reading device which, no doubt, had a vast library of all kinds of publications for her reading pleasure.

She brought this book as a sort of security blanket, a comfort item. He watched as she thumbed the book open to someplace toward the middle. The spine had seen better days but opened easily, lying flat across her palms as she read, readers perched on the end of her nose while she sipped at her gin and tonic.

He supposed this was as good a time as any to go over the details of the case so far.

 

* * *

  

His first thought was how burdensome the sunlight was. It probed, unfiltered through the large windows of the terminal. He wasted no time fishing a pair of old aviators from his messenger bag, ducking his head to slide the frames on. They looked mismatched with his white school shirt and loose tie.

He hitched the strap of his bag higher up on his shoulder and continued through the Tulsa Airport to the baggage carousel. He and his father hadn’t discussed it prior to this day, but that seemed the most likely place to find him.

He scanned the crowds in the long moments before they called for his flight’s baggage, he’d seen no sign of his father as of yet.

No sign of him still as his trunk rode by along the carousel; he chased it for a few metres before drawing it up and hauling it beside him. He scoffed. Of course his father had forgotten. Because why would the son you haven’t seen in months coming to the new country you call home for the first time be something to warrant remembering?

He supposed he would have to find a pay phone and phone whoever would answer.

He tried their home phone, dad’s office, mummy’s office and dad’s Teaching Assistant, none of them answered. He left a message, each more annoyed than the last, before ringing off, dropping a scathing deduction about the state of the TA’s severely crooked teeth (he’d deduced by her voice in her outbound message). 

Naturally, the time he’d talked himself out of bailing out during his layover in Washington, this happens.

He slammed the phone down onto the receiver. That phone call had been the last of his change. He contemplated calling a cab, were there even cabs here? As he was flying over it seemed like entire oceans of wheat fields passed under him and little else.

But why bother with a cab? He was already at an airport. He could just cash in his return flight ticket and jump on a plane going somewhere, anywhere, but here. In fact, that seemed like the best thing, why hadn’t he thought of it before?

He turned toward the departures desk making purposeful strides toward the uniformed woman booking flights when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He spun around to see a breathless man he didn’t recognize, clutching his chest and breathing heavily.

Sherlock didn’t know what social protocol dictated he do at this point. Was he supposed to help him? Run away? After an unnerving moment, the man caught his breath and simply asked “You Will Holmes?”

In a second, Sherlock sized the man up: Early forties (hair still black but lightly peppered with grey), Native American (Brown skin, long well-kept hair falling over his shoulders), works in an office, probably administration (slacks and a button up, sturdy brown loafers, calloused fingertips from hours of filing). He deduced that the man must be someone his parents knows, how else would someone know to look for him here?

“Yes. And you are?” Sherlock answered tentatively, knowing he would either be someone who worked under his mother or father. He favoured the latter.

“Chuck Mankiller. I work for your mother.” He said, offering his worn hand to Sherlock.

Ah, engineer. How did he miss that?

“Look, Will. Your mom’s real sorry she couldn’t be here. There was an emergency and it’s all hands on deck, you understand. I’m gonna take you back to your Mom and dad’s house, I’m sure they won’t be long.”

Sherlock scoffed, shaking his head and following Chuck out through the great glass doors of Tulsa World Airport.

Sherlock reached in his pocket and pulled out his last pack of cigarettes. He’d smoked every opportunity he got between flights, practically chewing his arm off needing a cigarette, through the last leg of the trip. Now only two sad little cigarettes remained. He sighed, pushing one between his lips and lighting it.

He took a deep drag flagrantly in front of the slightly agog man. He wasn’t appalled, but he wasn’t amused either.

“Chuck, was it?” Sherlock asked. The man nodded in return, his expression flat with annoyance at the young man before him.

“I’m going to need to make a stop on the way, if you don’t mind, Chuck.” Sherlock applauded himself internally for remembering to phrase his request politely; too bad he couldn’t manage to get the smug tone out of his voice. Oh well, one must celebrate the small victories, he supposed.

Chuck nodded, leading him through a long parking lot, walking ahead of Sherlock and his clouds of smoke. Sherlock had the cigarette smoked nearly to the filter when they stopped at a space with a large red pick-up truck parked inside it.

“This is me.” He indicated to the truck.

Sherlock flicked his finished cigarette to the ground and toed it into the pavement before stepping toward the massive vehicle. He’d never seen one quite like this before.

“Don’t have many of these where you’re from?” Chuck smiled, noting Sherlock’s reaction.

“Not much call for crew cabs in London.” Sherlock rebutted.

“Well, fits the whole family. It was either this or a minivan. And I refuse to go minivan.” Chuck, hoisted himself into the driver’s seat, Sherlock followed his example. It was a bit disorienting feeling this high off the ground.

“Where to?” Chuck asked once they were each buckled. He put the key in the ignition, the truck’s engine roared to life. Sherlock could feel the vibrations of the growling machine under him. He supposed he could understand the appeal of such a massive vehicle.

“Anywhere close, I just need provisions.” Sherlock pushed his sunglasses up his nose and turned his head to watch the houses and trees pass through the window.

After a few miles, Chuck pulled in to a Stop N’ Shop. Sherlock went in to make his purchases while Chuck said something about phoning his mum to let her know her son had been picked up.

An electric bell dinged as he entered the grotty corner store. Inside were walls lined with refrigerated coolers and rows in between of various sundries. In the middle was a long counter which held several warming boxes filled with burritos, pizza pockets, and spinning sausages. There was the compulsory slurpee machine in the back and a magazine rack full of car periodicals, tabloids and pornographic magazines- all your standard garage fare.

He moved down the aisles, snatching up various snack items and a drink from the cooler. There were a few strange items he’d never tried before, so he added them to the pile as he moved toward the counter and whoa! “What is that?!” Sherlock asked the clerk, pointing to a large glass jar in which small hunks of pink flesh seemed suspended in a gelatinous material.

The clerk arched his brow noticing Sherlock’s accent but answered simply, “Pickled pig’s feet.” The man hadn’t said much but his voice had a slow sort of drawl, different to Chuck’s less regionally specific dialect. Not at all that pronounced but still Sherlock reeled with culture shock.

Sherlock couldn’t imagine a more stereotypically redneck statement to make than ‘pickled pig’s feet’. “What do you do with them?” He was almost afraid to ask.

The man gave him a withering look. “What do ya think ya do with em? Ya eat em!” The man thundered with laughter at the scrawny British boy paled by a local oddity.

“I’ll take three please.” Sherlock announced after the man’s furor of laughter died down into a sound of confusion.

“You want some of these?” The man asked for clarification as if Sherlock was unclear with his request.

“Yes. Three. Please and thank you.” The man’s lip curled as he lifted the lid of the jar, the strong vinegary smell wafting toward him. Clearly he didn’t care for this particularly delicacy himself but had no qualms teasing Sherlock for his misgivings.

He used a pair of metal tongs to pluck three hunks from the viscous vinegar solution and dropped them in a wax paper sack before quickly closing the lid again.

Sherlock took the bag from the man, and in full view of him and the line that was forming behind him, he raised one of the fleshy hunks to his lips and took a bite. The taste of vinegar overwhelmed his mouth, but the thing that he found most shocking was the texture of the meat. It was almost like jelly. A sort of pickled pork jelly, he fought down the urge to cringe, bravely chewing and swallowing it down.

 He feigned a look as if he were considering the flavor. “Not bad.” And while the clerk was busy gawking Sherlock added. “And a ah… pack of Parliaments, please.”

The mildly stunned man groped at the shelves behind him before turning to look for Sherlock’s requested brand, not thinking to ask him for ID.

Sherlock threw a pack of gum on top of his purchases, fished out several bills and paid the man, not waiting to take his change, rather strolling out confidently as the clerk and other patrons watched.

He tossed the wax sack of pig’s feet in a bin outside when he exited the store, taking the opportunity to finish the last cigarette in his old pack. He watched Chuck on the other side of the building, still on the phone. He seemed agitated… well perhaps concerned was more appropriate.

He was hunched, leaned forward against the pay phone bank, holding his weight on his forearm. He must have felt Sherlock watching him as his eyes flicked up. There was a flash of something there. Was it pity?

Sherlock felt a scoff bubbling up in his throat.

Chuck spoke a few more words into the receiver before hanging up slowly and giving Sherlock that pitying look once more.

“I just need to make one more call.” The man shouted across to him. To which Sherlock simply nodded and continued attending to his lit cigarette.

Chuck seemed more at ease in this conversation, continuing to glance up at Sherlock periodically with sad puppy eyes. Body language indicated he was speaking with someone close, a relative, or spouse more likely.

He tried to read the man’s lips but was getting nowhere. It occurred to him, suddenly that the Chuck might not be speaking English. Another few seconds, and he was certain that he wasn’t.

Chuck was waiting in the cab of the pick-up when Sherlock finished his cigarette. Joining the man, he hoisted into the seat and buckled himself in. Chuck was silent, Sherlock got the distinct impression that the man was unsure of what to say to him. He decided to end the man’s anxiety on the matter.

“Let’s see, my mother and father are presently unavailable and will be so for the foreseeable future. They insisted you not trouble yourself with me and take me directly to their home. Yet you are choosing not to heed their advice. Why?”

“You read lips?” Chuck asked in non-answer.

Sherlock sighed. “A bit. But I also pick up information from body language, subconscious cues and tics, you’re practically a billboard.”

Instead of the usual sneer Sherlock would have expected, Chuck laughed and put the truck into gear. “Is that right? Okay eagle eyes, what else you got?”

Sherlock glanced around the cab, uncertainly. “You said you bought this truck to fit the size of your family.  Judging by the size and the variety of stray items you have 3 children? All close to my age. A daughter and… two sons, twins.”

“Bulls eye” Chuck nodded. “The boys are twins. How’d you figure that?”

Sherlock’s gestured to the back of the cab where two pairs of shoes were strewn across the seats. “Two pairs of baseball cleats, same size but different colors. There’s a chance that the two pair belong to the same person, but the pattern of wear and aging on both pairs are identical, suggesting they were purchased at the same time.”

Sherlock paused, looking down at the center console between them and plucking two name tags from inside, a necessary addition to a part-time job’s uniform.

“Desmond and Dorsey” He waved the tags at Chuck. “Alliterative first names are a dead giveaway.”

Chuck sighed. “Yeah I told my wife that when we were naming them. She didn’t care. She just thought the names would suit them. And, how can I argue? She did know them a lot better than I did at the time.” His eyes cut toward Sherlock, mirthful and kind.

Sherlock allowed a tiny curl perk the corner of his lip. Not quite smiling, but not brooding either.

They turned down a stretch of road thickly lined with trees and no house in sight. Chuck slowed as they approached an opening in the trees and a stretch of gravel road running serpentine through the brush.

Sherlock reached for the handle above his head on instinct when he felt the smooth asphalt of the road give way to the bumping of gravel beneath the wheels. The narrow road trailed a bit then curved, bringing them in full view of a clearing, in the center of which stood a house.

He pulled the truck to a patch of gravel beside the home, obviously designated as a parking area. Beside them was a rusted car body on cinder blocks.

“My gift to the boys on their sixteenth birthday” Chucked offered when he noticed Sherlock look askance at the heap of rust. “We just celebrated their seventeenth. I really thought they’d have her runnin’ by now.”

The man disengaged the engine but made no move to open the car door. Instead he looked fully at Sherlock and held out his hand. Sherlock blinked at him in confusion.

“Your smokes. I know you got some at the corner store.” Oh dear, it seemed the man was about to do the positive male role model thing. How tedious. “You smoke. Okay. The way I see it that’s an issue for your parents to deal with, but I won’t have it happening around my kids. So hand ‘em over, I’ll keep ‘em here in the glove box until I take you home.”

Sherlock lifted is brows, scanning the man before him with extra scrutiny. Chuck held his ground and Sherlock ultimately determined that any fight on this issue would not go well for him. He relented with a huff, slapping the pack into the larger man’s palm.

Chuck smiled at him. “Good man.” He gave Sherlock a warmly (ugh!) paternal pat on the shoulder, then reaching across him to throw the cigarettes in the compartment before turning to exit the vehicle. Sherlock trailed behind him, his hands shoved in his pockets and his sunglasses still on.

He tried to affect a saunter as he followed Chuck, a man he’d only just met, into his home. He’d hoped it would disguise his anxiety but instead it made him feel peg-legged and he nearly tripped on a cobblestone on the walk.  He abandoned it immediately when the door opened and a thin girl stood in the opening.

She was barefoot, her long brown legs bare below her denim cut-offs. Her t-shirt was a well-worn thing with the faded words “The Chainsaw Kittens” emblazoned over her chest. He had no idea who or what that was but he dismissed it as yet another pop culture thing that he discarded or had escaped his notice.

Her long, dark hair framed her angular face as she peered up at the two figures approaching her, shielding her eyes from the sun at their backs.

“Hey dad” she greeted, nonchalantly. She fixed Sherlock with a long gaze, sizing him up. Sherlock did this to people all the time but never knew what to do when he knew it was being done to him. Almost by instinct he straightened his back and whipped off his sunglasses, dropping them in his front shirt pocket.

Her measuring expression didn’t change even after it appeared she had learned all she wanted to from looking at him just then.

“Who’s this?” She addressed her father while pointing at him.

“Sig and Vi’s boy” He answered, leaning down to kiss the top of her head before slipping past her through the door, gesturing for Sherlock to follow.

He nodded as he passed her, entering the house. He was probably supposed to say something. He thought perhaps, something in the way of a timely youth colloquialism would be appropriate. He furrowed his brows as every casual greeting he’d ever heard flashed to the front of his mind. Too many to sort through at once and the pause was becoming too long so he threw out the first thing he could think of.

“S’up?” Oh yeah, fucking brilliant.   

She snorted a quiet laugh. “Not much. You?”

Chuck whipped around. “Oh, excuse me. Will, this is my daughter Winnie. Winnie, this is Will Holmes.”

They both shrunk a bit at Chuck’s announcement of their names but gave one another a nod in greeting. Winnie went so far as to give him a weak wave.

There was an awkward moment of silence in which Chuck was busy sorting through some post on an entry table. Sherlock and Winnie just shifted uncomfortably, glancing at each other every few seconds before ducking their heads down again.

Winnie did the decent thing and broke the silence. “Oh, uhm, dad… Des called. He said they’re getting a ride home from practice.”

Chuck sighed, setting down his post and looking at Sherlock. “Dorsey’s girlfriend has a car. That right there tells you all you need to know about my boys’ lack of motivation to fix that one.” He gestured out the door toward the heap outside.

Winnie scoffed. “Yeah that ‘character building exercise’ really backfired on you, Dad.”

“Oh well, if they don’t have it running by your sixteenth birthday, it’ll be _your_ character building exercise.” He quipped.

Winnie’s eyes widened. “Seriously?!” A broad genuine smile crossed her face. “You said that in front of Will, so no backsies.”

“Yeah, of course, your mom ain’t gonna let me keep it out there forever. If the boys ain’t gonna do nothin’ with it, it’s yours.”

Winnie squeaked and bounced on her toes with excitement, before jumping up and hugging her dad. “Thank you, daddy!”

Chuck laughed. “Don’t get your hopes up, the boys might still get their act together and fix it.”

Winnie raised her eyebrows at him in incredulity, clearly broadcasting the words ‘FAT CHANCE’ with the little wrinkle of her forehead.

He relented. “Yeah probably not, but still…”

“Can you drive, Will?” Winnie asked, shifting the focus to him once again. He took an extra second to catch up to the idea of being spoken to.

“I can drive. That is, I am capable of driving-“

“He doesn’t have a license, Winnie. He’s from England, no you can’t drive with him without an actual licensed driver with you. Sorry, Will. She just got her permit.” Chuck interjected.

Winnie rolled her eyes, turning her head to poorly disguise an indolent sneer.

“Yeah, have that attitude with the cop who pulls you over and see where that gets you.”

Winnie grumbled. Pausing when she heard Sherlock quietly laugh, he then poorly attempted to disguise it as a cough. She looked up at him darkly. She turned on her heels and breezed past him with nary a second glance. “I’ll be in my room if anyone needs me.”

Chuck willfully ignored his daughter’s snit and instead offered Sherlock a short tour of the house. The layout was fairly standard. The furnishings were well appointed but still quite a bit lived in. There was a palpable familial quality to the home. There were framed photographs of children in various stages of childhood to adolescence. There was the standard doorway with children’s heights marked against it.

 Sherlock certainly didn’t take an extra moment to notice that Winnie had not yet abandoned the height-marking tradition, her last one made only 5 months ago. And he absolutely did not have to fight back a smile at the discovery. He couldn’t even understand where the impulse to do so would even come from.

Walking back to the living room they happened upon Chuck’s wife, Claire. She was tall and thin, like her daughter but more solid. She had a kind face and a commanding presence. She wore scrubs underneath a denim jacket, nurse obviously. She welcomed Sherlock, hugging him without prelude or hint of hesitation. The maternal warmth caught him a bit off guard but he melded into the hug easily after a moment of adjustment.

“Are you hungry, sweetheart? Has my husband offered you anything to drink?” She asked giving him a final pat on the shoulder as she broke away stepping into the kitchen to examine the contents of her cupboards. “I’ll be cooking dinner soon, but if you’d like something in the meantime.”

“No thank you, I’m fine.” Sherlock insisted.

“You sure. hon? Okay, Chuck, take him downstairs and get him set up on the boys’ video game thing.” She ordered returning to the contents of her cupboards. Next thing he knew a hand on his shoulder was guiding him toward stairs that seemed to lead to a basement.

It was brighter and less draughty than most basements. There were worn rugs on the floor and a puffy leather sofa draped in an afghan. “We got the kids a Sega last Christmas, but as you can see they’re hardly here to play it, so feel free.” Chuck gestured to a stack of game cartridges.

Sherlock nodded, it was nice of them to offer him a distraction, even a distraction that held so little interest for him. 

“I should probably go give Claire a hand in the kitchen. Will you be alright down here?”

Sherlock nodded again, making a show of getting comfortable on the sofa, settling in with the game to appease Chuck who smiled before turning back up toward the stairs.

Sherlock breathed a little deeper at the feeling of finally being alone. Usually by this point, being forced to interact with other human beings would have him disintegrated into a ball of anxiety, lashing out with malicious deductions by now. These people were unusually tolerable.

The relief didn’t last long because a moment later he felt eyes on him from behind and heard a door shut. Oh. Winnie’s room must be down here. When he looked around the large space it became clear to him that this level of the home was still a work in progress.

“My parents are turning this floor into a basement apartment.” Winnie said her voice growing closer behind him. “They talk about it like they think they’ll be renting it to some student out at TU. But I think deep down, they know it will really end up being where Dorsey moves his girlfriend in when he inevitably gets her knocked up.”.

“You think your brother would try to get a girl pregnant?” Sherlock cocked his head to the side to look at her as she stepped over the back of the sofa and settled beside him.

She scoffed. “No. But I think he’s the right kind of stupid to get a girl pregnant.”

Sherlock chuckled softly at Winnie’s analysis. “What about the other one, Desmond?”

“Pssh, you mean the ‘Scholar-Athlete of the Week’?” Winnie rolled her eyes. “Basically the complete opposite, it’s almost a joke how different they are.”

Sherlock didn’t have anything to add, but nodded to affirm he was listening and turned his attention back to the game. He settled more deeply into the sofa, crossing one leg over his knee.

Quite without his permission, his foot began bobbing anxiously. He didn’t manage to stop it before the girl noticed. She shuffled closer to him on the long sofa.

“Nervous?” She asked.

His pulsed quickened and he glanced in her direction. “Long day” he offered as an explanation.

“I’m sure.” She responded. “And stressful too, I’ll bet. Long lines, crowds, crappy airplane food; I bet you’re basically a raw nerve right about now.” She continued to edge nearer to him.

Sherlock didn’t know what to say. He had been completely taken off guard by this girl’s forwardness.

“And…” She began with a devilish smirk “I’ll bet I know exactly what you need.” She was crawling across the final space between them on the sofa. Rising up on her knees beside him, he could almost feel her breath against his cheek.

He froze, concentrating on keeping his breathing steady, in and out, through his nose. He couldn’t keep himself from turning his head slightly almost shocked by how close she was. Another inch and they’d be touching noses.

“Oh? And what would that be?” He wasn’t sure, but he felt as though he managed to sound aloof.

She looked at his lips then back up into his eyes. He licked his lips on instinct and he thought he saw her pupils dilate in response.

“A cigarette” She answered, lifting her hand to show her father’s keys dangling from her finger tip.

Sherlock’s mouth gaped open before he could say anything she continued, “If you want ‘em, you better go now while they’re busy in the kitchen.”

Sherlock took another second to gather his wits about him narrowing his eyes at her. “And what’s in it for you if I do?”

She shrugged. “Share with me?” She was pouting now and her nose was crinkled. Her hazel eyes sparkled and it was all very distracting.

But Sherlock managed to hold on to his uncertainty and with his faster reflexes; he snatched the keys out of her hand causing her to double take and glower at him. “Hey!”

“What’s to stop me from getting them and not giving any to you?” He smiled smugly, gripping the keys in his fist, holding them above his head when she dove for them.

She huffed, suspending her campaign of physically taking them back to answer, “Maybe because if you do, I might just find something interesting outside my parents will need to see right away, just as you open the door.”

“Chuck said he would give them back when he takes me home. I’ll just return the keys. I can wait.” Sherlock moved to stand.

“You bought that lie?” Winnie answered. “Your mom left a message on the machine. They’re coming to pick you up; he’s not taking you home. I guarantee if you don’t get them now, you’ll never get them back.” She reasoned.

Sherlock sighed, it was very likely that she was correct and that he wouldn’t get the cigarettes back unless he took her advice, and doing so required her full cooperation. “Fine, but you’ll have to be lookout.”

She nodded enthusiastically, jumping to her feet excitedly, like she had done before when her father announced she could have that old rusted pile of a car outside.

She gave a wide smile of certainty. “I’m ready.”

It was pathetically easy, slipping past her parents through the back door and quietly unlocking the truck. Sherlock took the sack that held his other purchases as well as the cigarette pack tucked in the glove box and followed her across to the rusted car on the other side of the gravel car park.

She opened the passenger side door, climbing in and poking her head out as he caught up to her. “Coming?”

He looked around, scouting in every direction before ducking in to join her.

“Close the door.” She ordered.

He obeyed, shutting it firmly but quietly. He felt a wave of relief at the sense of seclusion he felt in the small car, despite the fact that the driver’s side window was broken out and the inside of the car was littered with dead leaves.

She waved her hand at him, gesturing that she was ready for the promised cigarette. He ripped open the outer film, slipping the resulting garbage in his pocket so as not to leave it behind to be found later.

He flipped to packet open, drawing out a single cigarette and bringing it to his lips.

She squirmed impatiently as she watched him take a long drag, holding the smoke in his mouth as he offered the same cigarette to her.

“Really?” She asked in annoyance. He simply raised his brows and nodded, puffing out his smoke.

“Unless you don’t want it…?” He teased raising it back up to his own lips.

“Fine” She huffed, snatching it from his hand and taking her own similarly long drag. ”I hardly know you, and already we’re swapping spit.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes again. He’d understood the motivation for her flirtatious language before. Why was she still flirting with him? Perhaps she was angling for more cigarettes. He decided to test the hypothesis.

He didn’t take the cigarette back from her; instead he reached into the packet to start in on a second one. She paused at this, biting her lip and turning her attention back to the one in her own hand.

“So have you ever been to America before?” She asked casually.

He answered her with a shake of his head.

“Your first time in America and it’s here?” She laughed and shook her head, flicking ash out the open window behind her. “Bummer, dude.”

He nodded in agreement.

“You don’t say much, do you?” She took another drag, feeling the need to fill the vacuum of silence.

He smiled and shook his head. “Usually when I talk I say the wrong thing.”

“Ooh like what?” She slumped further in the seat blinking up at him. “I like wrong things.”

Okay, that was definitely a flirtation… wasn’t it? “I make observations about people. I say the things people are thinking but aren’t supposed to say.” He explained.

She licked her lips and stared up at him. “Okay”, her voice was a hoarse whisper. “What are you thinking now?”

Sherlock searched her eyes, a dozen thoughts tangled together. He was lost in the sight of her moist parted lips. He blinked and cleared his throat. “That this is a waste of time.”

He shook his head and took another deep pull of smoke.

“What?” Winnie asked darkly.

“This. This thing you’re doing. It’s a waste of my time.” He flung ashes to the floor boards and started into his tangent. “You’re sort of cute, I guess. But your tits are nothing to write home about and your arse is just okay. If I stay back here with you, we’ll probably fool around, but I’m fairly certain you won’t put out. Our parents are friends, we aren’t going to be able to avoid each other after so I’d rather if this…” He gestured toward her body. “…didn’t happen.”

She shot up, clenching her fists, throwing a punch to his arm and climbing out of the car through the open window.

“I warned you!” He shouted at her feet as she flailed out of the window.

He held his arm where she hit him and watched her kick the side of the car angrily and flip the bird with both hands while walking away, cigarette still dangling from her lips.

Sherlock took a deep steeling breath as he watched her return to the house.

Later that night he’d had dinner with her family with minimal awkwardness. Winnie refused to look at him and he couldn’t look away from her.

Not long after, his parents came by, thanking Chuck and Claire before huddling Sherlock and his trunk back into their car.

Their own house was not far away, maybe even a neighboring property. It seemed all the homes in this area were moderately sized houses nestled in the center of a swatch of lush country.

He didn’t bother to shower or brush his teeth. He just stripped to his pants and climbed into bed. His last wakeful thought was of soft lips and warm skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OhAine informed me during the beta process that the UK does have pickled pig's feet, they call them jellied trotters (which sounds worse, somehow) but that it was unlikely Sherlock would have been terribly familiar with them, being the posh patrician he is.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adolescent Sherlock. What more can I say?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a ton of Molly in this chapter. Sherlock recalls his relationship to Winnie.

When they arrived in Tulsa Sherlock began pulling her by the crook of the arm, while she tried to keep up dragging her half empty suitcase as it flailed unevenly behind her. He’d taken her directly from baggage claim to the car rental desk.

Spent from travel and hungry again, she only huffed, jamming her headphones back in her ears and slumping onto a chair while Sherlock dealt with the attendant. Molly couldn’t hear what he was saying to the uniformed woman at the desk, but he seemed to become steadily more annoyed the longer they spoke.

Another moment and she saw Sherlock tense, like a runner setting up at the starting block; it was obvious he was getting into his ‘shout innocent people into bloody ribbons’ mode. In spite of herself, Molly sighed pulling her headphones out again and hoisting herself up to intervene.

“I’m sorry, you feel that way sir but-”, Molly heard the uniformed woman say in a placating tone before he cut her off.

“’Feel’?” He chuckled “You misunderstand, me madam. Your incompetence has nothing to do with how I _feel_. It is a fact not currently open to debate. Simply rent me the vehicle I requested and we can both move on with our lives.”

“Sir, I’ve already explained to you that the model you requested was returned this afternoon. It is currently being detailed and will not be available until tomorrow.” Her smile was flat but bright with red-orange lipstick that matched her blazer, adorned with the tackiest brooch Molly had ever seen, especially appalling if one considers her own daily attire.

“I don’t give a toss about the detailing! Just bring it round. I will take it as is.” He drummed his fingers impatiently on the desk but the woman continued to smile.

“If you would like, I would be happy to call a taxi to take you to your hotel, and our concierge service will have the vehicle you requested there as soon as it becomes available.”

“That sounds perfect. Thank you!” Molly interjected before the fuming man beside her could say another word.

“It is not, in fact, ‘perfect’, Molly as our accommodations are over an hour’s drive from here.” His head snapped to spit that information at her, not surprised to find her suddenly beside him at the desk.

“What!?” That didn’t sound right. She considered the sprawling veins of roads that lined the state as they flew over. She knew that the estimate of “over an hour” had more to do with distance than traffic. She couldn’t imagine that grid-lock was a difficulty experienced often by the commuters of this state. Another hour of driving when all she wanted was a meal and a soft bed sounded about as appealing as drug-free dental work at that moment.

“In that case, I would be happy to rent a different vehicle to you and one of our associates can meet you tomorrow and exchange it for the model you requested.”

Sherlock paused, considering the woman’s solution but Molly could feel his eyes on her. She didn’t even try to hide her despair at the thought of more traveling tonight. It would only be an effort the looming detective would notice but not appreciate.

“Right…” He sighed glancing at his watch. “We can check in tomorrow afternoon. If we leave for the cabin now the only restaurants open will be fast food. I’ll arrange accommodations elsewhere for the night and we can get an early start tomorrow.”

There it was again, that unusual thoughtfulness, it made Molly’s head reel in a strange swirl of giddiness and guilt. Had she been such a nag that he felt compelled to walk on eggshells around her? Her worry quarreled with the siren call of a hot dinner and clean sheets in a bed all to herself. There wasn’t even a question; she chose to accept her strange friend’s uncommonly kind offer. When would this ever happen again anyway?

She’d hardly completed nodding before he had his mobile out, texting while strolling away from the desk without another word. Molly watched his rapidly retreating form for a split second before realizing he probably meant for her to follow.

She looked at the friendly woman with the ugly brooch. “So sorry about that”

The woman gave a kindly smile and answered with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Oh honey, don’t you worry. I work at an airport, I deal with worse every day. Besides…” She leaned in close to Molly, “My husband is a horse’s ass too. Don’t apologize for ‘im, darlin’. Once ya start, ya never stop.”

The woman gave Molly a sympathetic pat, her hand littered with chunky, nauseatingly gauche jewelry that jingled with the movement of her arm.

“Oh thank you, but he’s actually not my-“

“MOLLY!” Sherlock shouted across the crowd waving impatiently, mobile still clasped in his hand.

Molly glanced at the woman who was giving her a knowing look. “I’d better go, thank you, and good night.”

The woman smiled again. “Good night, hon.”

Molly nodded giving the woman a final smile before turning back toward her detective who was now closer to the exit than he was the rentals desk and not slowing down. She caught up to him outside, leaning against a cement column, thumbs working the keyboard of his mobile.

“What are you doing?” Molly asked, slightly out of breath from her jog, unaccustomed to seeing Sherlock stationary out of doors, or in general without a microscope dierctly in front of him.

He lifted his brow but did not draw his eyes from the screen of his phone. “Waiting” He answered. Sherlock was either incredibly verbose or the living definition of brevity, he was nothing in-between. Both were irritating in equal measure.

“Well, I’m here.” She announced, not entirely certain if he’d noticed despite the fact that they were speaking. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

“I’m waiting for our cab, Molly.” He clarified.

As soon as the words left him, she experienced a fit of laughter that took them both by surprise.

“Sorry.” She explained, “I’ve just never seen you waiting on a cab before.” She giggled behind her hand.

“Is it really that amusing? I am a person. I do the same things people do.” His arms crossed his chest; they seemed a little smaller without his coat. In spite of the cooling evening air Molly could feel that the Belfast would be a foolish choice, even for the ridiculously impractical Sherlock Holmes. He sniffed then added, “Also, there are far fewer cabs here.”

Sherlock Holmes without his coat and uncanny, bordering on mystical, cab summoning powers; It was almost as if Oklahoma was a kind of parallel universe wherein Sherlock Holmes was just like any other bloke... She could get used to this.

He perked up when he saw the yellow car approaching, pocketing his mobile. He pressed his hand to her back in the space between her shoulder blades to guide her to the kerb. She could feel the warmth of his hand through the fabric of her top and it almost made her knees buckle.

Just like any other bloke except for that.

There were moments, sometimes even entire days, when Molly Hooper thought she had put away the torch she carried for her posh, curly-haired idiot. Then he would do something incredibly gentlemanly or sweet, like offer her a window seat on her first trans-Atlantic flight, or carefully hand her into the back of a taxi with his palm sliding down her back.

In those moments she knew she didn’t stand a chance. That torch would always smolder for him.

On days like this one, she let herself believe that maybe it wasn’t such a terrible thing. Especially when he settled beside her with his arm draped over the back of her seat.

“Juniper. 324 E. 23rd st.” Sherlock informed the driver while sliding in beside her, after loading their luggage into the boot.  

“Alrighty.” The cab driver answered, pulling the car into evening traffic. “You folks from England?” He asked after a silent moment.

Sherlock cleared his throat and glanced up from his mobile. “Wut?” He answered back, his inflection was flat and lazy and made Molly do a double take. “England? “ ‘Fraid not. I’m from here. Jus’ comin’ through to visit my folks.”

“Oh sorry.” The driver shook his head. “For a second there I thought I heard a British accent.”

Sherlock boomed with laughter in response. “Ya hear that, babe? He thought I was a Brit!” He gave her an enthusiastic squeeze. Molly just nodded, giggling nervously.

“Uh yeah. Funny.” She said softly in her best approximation of a non-regional American accent. Overall, not bad if she said so herself, which she wouldn’t since she wasn’t confident she could do so whilst maintaining the false accent. Oh God was she stuck talking like this the whole trip?

“Juniper, eh? Takin’ the missus for a night out?” The cabbie continued. Goodness, the cab drivers here are rather chatty.

“Yeah, this is her first time here, thought I’d show her the town.” This time his eyes were back on his mobile screen, already finished with the conversation but the man pressed on spouting off about his wife and how she’s always on him about taking her out.

“I said to ‘er, ‘Whaddaya think this is?’ And she says, ‘Not just out! Out-out’” The man chuckled. “Women, amiright?”

“Yeah… Oh sorry, gotta take this.” He held up his finger to stay the man and started loudly speaking into his mobile.

“Hey Dave. Did you get my quarterlies?” Then to Molly, “Sorry sweetheart, I know I promised no work calls on our trip, but it will just be this one, I promise.” He continued babbling quietly into the phone.

The entire rest of the trip (only a few minutes, incidentally) Sherlock spun some very important-sounding business yarn into his phone until they reached Juniper, which to Molly’s relief, was actually a restaurant.

“I swear those people can’t wipe their ass without me. What do I owe ya?” He said as they arrived.

“Sounds like it.” The cabbie replied before announcing the total.

Sherlock settled up with the driver before exiting the car, walking around to hand her out through the other side.

The driver gave a friendly smile, waving at them as he drove away. Sherlock took Molly’s arm and directed her toward the entryway of the restaurant.  

The building was quaint with modern styling. The exterior walls were harvest yellow stucco with the classic red shingling along the roof. The moniker hung above a triangular black awning and each side carried two large, round windows.

Nothing about the exterior of the building gave her any indication of the kind of food served at this establishment, which left her a bit unnerved. Regardless, Molly was determined to be gracious. He was bringing her to an establishment that serves food, for the sole purpose of consuming food.

It was a hard and fast rule that this was not done in Sherlock’s work. Perhaps, on further consideration, it would be imprudent to assume Sherlock had only brought her here to have dinner. More likely, this was a drop point for some clandestine activity and dinner was just killing two birds.

She recalled the accent he pulled with the cabbie and suddenly she was awash with nerves. Was she meant to carry on pretending not to be British?

“I wish you had told me we were going to be undercover, Sherlock.” Molly murmured as they approached the door.

“We aren’t.” He answered simply.

“Then what was that, back in the cab?” her confusion causing her to fall behind him a pace or two. He responded by taking her hand to pull her along beside him.

“I hypothesized that the cabbie would talk to us less if he thought we were American. I was… mistaken.” He huffed in annoyance.

“Did you really just create an alias just to get out of chatting with a townie?” Molly asked, unable to fight against the smile that was growing on her face. She thought she noticed Sherlock blanch slightly.

“Well… yes.” His voice was almost meek as he answered.

Molly giggled despite herself and couldn’t help but press on. “Just so I’ve got this straight. You’d rather make up a load of bollocks about hedge funds into your phone than chat with a stranger for a few minutes?”

“Of course, Molly” He couldn’t help but smile. “I find it’s much easier. Making up a load of bollocks is what I do. It’s approximately 25% of my work.” He was chuckling softly now in unison with her.

He reached forward, opening the door for her and ushering her inside where they were quickly seated at a table for two, given menus and water.

The interior was fitting; red brick halfway up the white walls, dark wood tables. This must be one of the nicer restaurants in this city. Sherlock pulled her chair out for her, but the second she was settled he was sitting across from her.

In the second it took her to look down at the napkin she was unfolding in her hand Sherlock took out his mobile and began fiddling or ‘researching’, as he would say. Although Molly was convinced that at least some of the time he was just dicking around on it.

 She’d caught him, one time. He was leaving a very long and insightful comment in one of the message boards of boardgamegeek.com.

She supposed that could have been for a case but the man owned quite a lot of tabletop games. It was suspect, at the very least.

Molly left him to it, sipping her glass of water and peering at the menu and nearly spitting when she read the contents. Sherlock had taken her to a French restaurant… in Oklahoma.

“You should try the duck confit.” Sherlock advised, glancing up from his mobile screen. “It’s one of the chef’s specialties.”

“You’ve been here before?” She asked curiously, still looking over the menu. Sherlock’s suggested sounded quite good but she wanted to make sure nothing else on the menu grabbed her first.

“Read it on Yelp.” He answered, still not looking up from his phone.

“Ah.” She responded giving a final glance at the menu dismayed slightly at her travel-weary appearance. She hadn’t expected Sherlock to bring her to a restaurant at all, let alone one as nice as this. The best she’d hoped for was a cold sandwich from a truck stop chill case.

She’d have liked a bit of warning so she could at least freshen up and perhaps change her top. “Shit… Sherlock, my suitcase…” they had left them in the cab.

“I paid the driver extra to deliver them to the hotel we are staying in tonight.” He cut her off, still engrossed in his mobile. Well that was a relief at least.

Their server returned, she peered down at her t-shirt and baggy slacks and groaned internally. The staff was all dressed smartly in dress shirts, pressed slacks and ties. Molly was actually less put together than the servers.

She let herself forget her self-consciousness for the moment, concentrating instead, on the task of ordering. In the end she had settled on the duck confit, per Sherlock’s recommendation, and a glass of red to go with it, swallowing the urge to ask the waiter to bring the bottle.

Sherlock had just batted away the server’s attempt to extract an order from him casually, but the arrival of newcomers entering the restaurant, caught his attention. A boisterous group of men chatting and laughing loudly approached the seating host’s podium. He snatched his menu back from the server, propping upright and ducking behind it, mumbling something about needing a few more minutes.

The waiter cocked an eyebrow but shrugged and walked away to put Molly’s meal order in.

Molly followed the sound of the group of laughing men; they became louder as they drew into the interior of the restaurant and seating themselves at a long table in the center of the room. Sherlock was ducked further down under the menu, evidently hiding at this point.

“What’s the matter? Are we…? Is this dangerous?” She whispered harshly, trying fruitlessly to push away all the panicked thoughts flooding her mind at once.

“Potentially…” Sherlock whispered harshly back, causing the hairs on the back of Molly’s neck to stand on end.

Molly braved another glance at the group of men, all dressed in finely tailored three-piece suits, and then turned back to Sherlock. “Well stop doing that!” Molly snapped, pulling the menu down. “You’ll attract more attention to yourself if you’re obviously trying to hide!” She was still whispering, but only just.

Sherlock looked up at her sheepishly, clearing his throat. “Right… of course…”

He put the menu down, carded his fingers through his hair apprehensively while glancing all around the room, unable to settle on any one person or thing. He looked shaken; a dewy layer of perspiration began to stand on his forehead. His breathing was quick, uneven.

Molly felt her nerves reach a new height. Sherlock was anxious, more than anxious. By Sherlock standards this might actually constitute a “freak out”.

Molly reached across the table and took his hand to ground him. His eyes snapped to where their hands were joined and took a steadying breath.

“It would look less suspicious if you ordered something.” Molly murmured, she held his gaze firmly, somehow drawing composure from his deteriorating comfiture.

He nodded obediently, wide eyes locked on hers, unmoving. He began breathing steadily. Molly put on a falsely cheery smile urging him to follow her example with a barely noticeable nod.

“Act naturally, Sherlock.” The seriousness of her command masked with a sunny smile and sweet inflection. She squeezed his hand tenderly.

He swallowed and nodded again, his expression falling into casual disinterest in the space of one slow breath. His eyes moved from their hands to her eyes. He favoured her with a heart stopping half smile. She couldn’t help but note the flash of panic that shone in those grey green eyes.

“We should probably be talking.” She said, still smiling and giving an inconspicuous passing glance around the room. “What kind of trouble are we in, Sherlock?”

“That man, there.” Sherlock gestured with the lean of his head and cut his eyes toward the group. Molly followed slowly with her gaze that settled on a figure in the center. “Black hair, red tie” Sherlock added, further describing the man Molly’s eyes had fallen on she let them linger for an extra second as he looked away.

The man had sleek black hair dark eyes and red-brown skin. His smile was unnaturally white and straight and his eyebrows were uncommonly sharp, as though he’d gotten them waxed. He laughed loudly at something one of the other men said and quipped back with something unintelligible from this distance, but it seemed to get a raucous response.

He was slick. That was the best word Molly could think of to describe the man with his smooth ink-black hair and witty rejoinders from a polished veneer of a summer weight suit and a bleach brilliant smile.

Politician, she’d bet her life on it.

Sherlock took in her gaze, a hint of desperation in his voice. “I know him.” He slunk down further into the seat as if by instinct.

“And…? What’s his game?” Molly pressed, trying to suss out the man’s role in the case and just how dangerous this situation just might be.

“No. I _know_ him. From…” Sherlock huffed. “…From growing up.” His voice was a quiet mumble.

Molly’s mouth dropped open and for a second she flinched as if she’d been slapped as a realization struck her. “What?” She thought she’d give him an opportunity to defend his reasoning for nearly scaring her out of her wits because he’d spotted an old chum.

He gave her a look full of pleading and remorse before lowering his eyes to watch his fingers twist his cloth napkin into knots. Molly’s gaze was fixed on him. “Damn it. I should have known… stupid, stupid!” He ground out, fists clenched around the napkin.

“Sherlock, tell me what’s wrong.” She was commanding him, her voice full of promise to defend him from anything, himself included.

His mouth was an expressionless line, but his reddening eyes gave away that he was emotionally affected. He could only manage his nonchalant expression if he wasn’t looking at her. His eyes were scanning the table, counting the whorls in the wood grain.

“There are things…” Sherlock managed to say steadily. “…things I have done. Before…” (John, her mind supplied), “‘Not good’ things. Things I would do differently if I could. Things I…”

“Will Holmes!” A voice announced from behind him. His eyes widened for a moment out of the horror that was actualizing before him. Apparently in the heated moment of their discussion the subject of Sherlock’s dismay had approached them from behind.

Sherlock straightened, taming his expression and turning his head to face his doom like a man.

“Or is it Sherlock? I read online that’s what they call you across the pond.” He gave Sherlock an awkwardly affectionate back slap. Sherlock made a visible effort to disguise his discomfort.

“Desmond.” Sherlock acknowledged, offering his hand to shake which Desmond enthusiastically took.

“Winnie told me she talked to your dad. Didn’t think you’d actually come though.” There was something in his tone there. An accusation?

“I want to help, Des. I know it won’t…” He sighed. “I know it doesn’t make things even but I’ll do whatever I can to-to…“

Sherlock was at a loss for what to say, a state he did not wear well. The sight of which activated something troublingly maternal in her that made her want to hush and cuddle him. He seemed so raw, exposed in a way she’d only seen once before.

“And who is this?” Desmond cut him off mercifully, directing his polished politician’s grin at her.

“Oh. Uhm… I’m Doctor Hooper I’m…”

“This is my friend, Molly Hooper”

They spoke at the same time. Desmond looked between them then said, “Doctor, hmm? You only pal around with doctors these days, it seems.”

“You have to admit, they can be very useful.” Sherlock chuckled softly.

“Well try not to give her a reason to work too hard.” He offered his hand to shake and she took it politely, but found him lowering at the waist to kiss her hand.

“Pleasure to meet you, Doctor Hooper…” He gave her a wink before dropping her hand and looking at Sherlock with a sincere expression.

“Will-or, uhm, Sherlock” He corrected himself, “It’s really good to see you.” The man spoke with a voice laden from a deluge of water under the bridge. “Truly...” He turned his head toward his table as the group burst out with more riotous laughter. Molly didn’t want to make assumptions, but his voice sounded forgiving just then.  “Look, I’ve got to get back to my table, but I just wanted to say hello. And uh… thanks.” He nodded sheepishly before turning back to his group.

Sherlock looked as though the wind had been knocked clean from his chest. His face was blank as he stared off into the void, processing everything that had just occurred.

Molly was saved from having to say anything to him by the waiter who had arrived with her glass of wine. She thanked him taking the glass from him, but sparing a worried glance toward Sherlock. “You know on second thought…” She added. “Could you please bring the bottle and another glass? Thank you.”

The waiter hurried to carry out her request. When he was gone, Molly slid the glass across the table toward her detective, still recovering from the system shock of that encounter. It had clearly not gone, in any way, how he’d expected.

His eyes darted from the glass, to her face and she smiled warmly. “I think you need this more than I do.”

He chuckled, reaching to take the glass from her, their fingers brushed and it made gooseflesh trail up her arms. “I think you’re right. Thank you, Molly Hooper.”

He raised the glass in her direction and took a deep, fortifying gulp.

The waiter returned a moment later with the bottle and extra glass, setting it down to fill it for her while another server arrived from behind him to set down her plate.

They lapsed into a comfortable silence, Sherlock gazing off into nothingness while steadily draining his glass and Molly eating the duck dish that had very much lived up to the hype.

Silently, he drained and refilled his glass twice more, Molly not trailing far behind him.

With her meal finished, her eyes heavy with exhaustion, and head fuzzy with wine she felt brave enough to venture onto the subject of the encounter.

“Desmond seems nice.” Ugh, Brilliant, Hooper. She chided herself internally.

“Yes.” Sherlock responded curtly.

“So he’s Winifred’s brother?” She tried again.

She heard Sherlock sigh into his wine glass; he took another slow drink and set it down, steeling himself to face her.

“One of them. Desmond has a twin, named Dorsey.” He was calculating the rings in the wine as he swirled it absentmindedly in the glass.

“Are they alike?” Molly asked, pushing her plate away and leaning back into her chair.

Sherlock scoffed. “Not at all.”

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock liked the twins. They’d shown up at his parents’ house in Dorsey’s girlfriend’s pick-up out of the blue one afternoon. They drove around town, usually loitering in different car parks, throwing rocks off the overpass, crushing pennies on the train tracks.

Desmond and Dorsey combined equated to a young Sherlock’s ideal friend. Desmond was clever enough to follow Sherlock in an intelligent discussion, and Dorsey mirrored Sherlock in his lack of impulse control. Combined, they were an unholy trinity of mayhem, tearing through the neighbourhood.

Since joining them that fateful afternoon, Sherlock spent the entire summer raising hell with the twins; he didn’t see much of Winnie. She was a young girl with young girl friends and young girl preoccupations which had nothing whatsoever to do with William Holmes and his determination to embrace the void.

It was mindless, but it occupied him and for once he was content to drift. He’d come along with them to different parties, mostly holding up the wall and nursing a beer. He was making an effort, and it was far preferable than sitting at home with his parents arguing about what to have for dinner or watch on telly.

When he arrived back the next summer it was Dorsey and Harley who picked him up from the airport. Sherlock tossed his luggage in the bed of the truck and jumped in beside Dorsey. He rolled the window down with the hand crank, to ventilate the cab as he lit a cigarette.

“There’s a party for you tonight. But our usual guy with the fake ID flaked, can you get the booze for us, man?” Dorsey pleaded, well that didn’t take long. He’d been back all of 10 minutes and already with this.

“First of all, Hello to you too, and secondly, I’m the same age as you, Dorsey.” Sherlock felt compelled to remind him.

“Oh come on, man! I said the party was for you! And you know you’ve done it before! Just do your whole British thing.”

Sherlock cocked a brow out him. “What ‘British thing’?”

“Ugh! You know that whole Professor Pennyfarthing act you lay on whenever you want to trick people into thinking you’re important and doing shit for you.” Dorsey explained causing Harley to laugh.

“Yeah just dazzle the guy with your Britishness and he’ll forget to check your ID.” She supplied.

Harley, Dorsey’s girlfriend, was the living embodiment of the cliché American beauty. Tall, tan, blonde and vapid, she was on a mission from Hell to see his v-card disappear. She didn’t believe him when he’d said he wasn’t a virgin, and rightfully so. Perhaps she was more astute than he gave her credit for being, or perhaps he gave himself far too much credit. He didn’t care to think on that any further.

In pursuit of her goal, she was always sending one of her minions after him. They’d lean into his side and slur explicit offers into his ear. Offers he’d had a surprising amount of trouble refusing. Part of him asked why he bothered refusing at all.

But Harley’s zeal for the task only made Sherlock more determined to reject the girls she’d sent him even more.

He reluctantly agreed to help them score alcohol for the party, his accent truly working the marvels Dorsey claimed. It was so pathetically easy to pull one over on the clueless attendant that he had to steal some pornographic magazines from behind the counter, when his back was turned, just to make the experience suitably exciting.

They sped along a lone stretch of highway toward the site of the party, which turned out to be an abandoned house with a barn. Someone had brought a gas powered generator for lights and music.

The music was loud, the lights were low, and the drinks were strong. Sherlock slouched drunkenly in the corner, watching the other partygoers from his vantage in the main room. Until his eyes caught something ghost across his periphery. He turned his head to see Winnie Mankiller, leaning against a door jamb, red solo cup in hand just watching everyone. Reading them, like him. She wore a red floral baby doll dress and black tights inside burgundy Doc Marten’s. Her dark hair was up in a high ponytail that showed off her neck to dramatic effect.

But then she caught his gaze with her own, smiling softly and biting her lip. And he felt compelled. He took four steps toward her, weaving through the crowd of partygoers to bring them closer to each other. But some voice of reason spoke up and he turned away, darting directly into the bathroom to do a line off of the sink.

As it happens, that turned out to be an unwise decision, because she was still there when he returned from the bathroom. There was no amount of cocaine he could do that would make Winnie Mankiller disappear. And he’d apparently done the exact right amount of cocaine to cause Sherlock to lose all good sense.

 He didn’t know what happened, the urge took over and he felt compelled to be beside her. She didn’t say anything; she only turned to him and draped her arms over his shoulders, urging him to sway with her as the song changed.

The remainder of the night saw Winnie and Sherlock more or less revolving around one another. They danced, and drank deeply and eventually found themselves in an empty room where blankets lined the bare floor.

He’s coked out of his mind when he loses his virginity to her on a cold floor in an abandoned house while The Smashing Pumpkins played on the speakers below. They drift off to sleep together, wrapped up in each other’s arms.

It’s barely light out when he feels a hard slap to his face and awakes with a jolt to find Desmond hovering over him. “Wake the fuck up, shit head!”

Winnie jolts up beside him, pulling the blanket over her bare breasts. “What the fuck, Des?”

“Shut up, Winnie! Get up, Will. We’re doing this!” Desmond stood to his full height raising his fists threateningly.

“Doing what?!” Sherlock shouted back, still fighting the confusion of his rude awakening and his coke come down.

“We’re going to fight, and I’m going to kick your punk ass!” Desmond’s face was red with rage and there was a fleck of froth in the corner of his lip.

“Jesus Christ!” Winnie shouted.

“YOU FUCKED MY SISTER!” He hollered, causing others in the house to stir awake.

“Chill out, Des. It’s not a big deal.” Winnie tried to placate her brother who was getting more crazed by the minute.

“You don’t fuck a friend’s sister, dude! You don’t just go around behind a friend’s back and fuck his LITTLE SISTER!” It was at that outburst that Harley and Dorsey tumble into the room to investigate.

“Holy fuck!” Harley laughed hysterically when she entered to find Sherlock and Winnie in their post-coital state.

“No shit!” Dorsey agreed, wide eyed and scratching his head in bafflement.

Desmond did not appreciate Dorsey’s levity even a little. “He fucked your baby sister, asshole! He took her virginity!”

At that pronouncement, Harley howled with laughter even harder while everyone else fell silent. Desmond’s glance bounced from his blushing sister, his twin brother, and his brother’s girlfriend crying with laughter.

“I wasn’t a virgin, Des.” Winnie admitted sheepishly.

A fresh wave of humiliation rolled over Sherlock and without another word, he stood up, uncaring that he was nude, gathered his clothes and walked out, hopping into his clothes as he dressed and walked at the same time.

 “Will, wait!” He heard Winnie shout behind him as he pulled his grey Henley over his head and snapped the fly to his jeans. He was carrying his shoes under his arms and moving resolutely toward the door. He could still hear Harley laughing when he rushed out the front door.

Winnie was following behind him wrapped up in the blanket she’d deflowered him on. Imploring him to stop, but he soldiered outside where one of Dorsey’s classmates was getting into his car. “Hey uh…” He searched his facial catalogue briefly before settling on “Brian?”

Brian looked up and gave him a nod. “Hey Will, great party man.”

“Yeah, thanks. Listen; can you give me a ride to my parents’ house?” Sherlock beseeched frantically, yanking his suitcase out from the back of Harley’s truck.

Brian shrugged. “Sure. Uh… hey Winnie…” He acknowledged the nude girl closing the gap behind him.

“Shut up, Brian.” She snapped before turning back to Sherlock, “Don’t do this. It doesn’t have to be… you know, whatever. Just-just…” She struggled to find the words. And if she was lost, there was no hope for him. He turned around and loaded his suitcase in the back seat of Brian’s car, before settling into the passenger side and slamming the door.

Brian watched the standoff from beside the driver’s side door. He fumbled in the tension of the moment and awkwardly said, “Uhm… well… bye, I guess.” He said, opening the door.

“Ugh! Fuck off!” She shouted before turning back toward the house.

 

***

He ran into Desmond days later outside the basketball courts, he sometimes played pick-up games with the local kids when was especially bored.

“Are you going to try to fight me again?” He asked. It was a fair question. Desmond didn’t appear to be the powder keg he’d been the morning he caught them post flagrante but he was still seething about something.

He shook his head, assuring that, for now he wasn’t going to try anything. “I’m sorry.” He mumbled. “It was none of my business, I shouldn’t have said anything.”

Sherlock had expected the moment when Desmond confronted him again was coming, but he hadn’t expected anything like this.

“She likes you. You should talk to her… I don’t know. Call her or something, I guess. If you don’t want to be with her at least have the decency to tell her.” Desmond kicked at the gravel between them.

Sherlock nodded, watching the little pebbles scatter, and finding that he was completely unsure of what to say. He wouldn’t have had a chance to say it anyway, as Desmond turned to leave, adding. “Don’t be a stranger just ‘cause I acted like an idiot. Talk to ya later, Will.”

***

He didn’t have to call Winnie. He’d gone back home after the basketball courts to process what Desmond had said. And just when he felt his mind collating everything and filing it neatly into the rooms he’d begun constructing, he heard a rapping on his windowsill.

As soon as he had it open, Winnie was crawling through and standing in front of him. He said nothing, just stared into her round eyes.

“Do you want to talk about it?” She asked stepping closer to him. He shook his head.

“Are you pissed off at me?” She continued her interrogation.

He shook his head again.

She took another step toward him and his hands went to her waist, quite without his permission. She rested her hands on his chest and peered up at him with dark, heavily lashed eyes. “Do you want to do it again?” She asked in a breathy whisper.

He nodded. And with that, she pounced.

An hour later they sat in front of the open window, Winnie perched on his lap while they blew smoke out the opening.

They were sitting together in silence, her thin cinnamon brown legs draped over his lap. Neither of them said anything for a long while but they both felt content to stay quiet, listening to the swell of humming cicadas outside.

***

He went back to school that autumn with Winnie’s smile haunting his thoughts. They wrote each other for a while, and on weekends she would phone. In the summers they fell back into their comfortable routine, as if he’d never left, as if there hadn’t been months of separation between them.

She never called herself his girlfriend. He never called himself her boyfriend. They just were. Summer after summer, year after year they existed in this temporary halcyon where they could fool themselves into thinking neither of them had changed in their months apart.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How it all fell apart with the Mankillers and back to the Future with Molly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to post this sooner, but alas, life. Anyway, per usual, supreme affection for OhAine who was recently locked in an epic struggle with influenza. She conquered it like the epic champion of legend she is. All the lady-warrior respect from me to you, love.

Desmond was offered a baseball scholarship while Dorsey fought any attempt to discuss plans for life after graduation. There were too many functions, too many parties and farewells for him to hide behind and his final summer had come and gone with nothing to show for it.

He assuaged his parents somewhat by picking up a few courses at the local community college and he’d always talk about finding a new job, saving up, moving out. That talk was mostly for Harley’s benefit, who had wisely begun to question her choice to hitch her wagon to Dorsey for so long.

Sherlock knew what Dorsey could not accept. Things were different now, they had to be different. Desmond and Sherlock were both off to university and Dorsey insisted on staying home to eke out whatever meagre drops remained of his childhood.

It was the summer before Winnie’s senior year and thoughts of the future had not eluded her. She was well-rounded academically. While her grades weren’t stellar, they were still exceptional and she made up for what they lacked with extra-curricular activities.  She had endless options.

“I might apply to Cambridge.” She said after a long moment of silence. They were sitting together on a porch swing while their families grilled in the back garden. Her legs were in his lap and she was sipping on a contraband wine cooler. She stole a glance up toward him to judge his reception of that information.

He stiffened. “I-is that something you’d really want to do?” He was stammering, oh perfect.

Winnie shrugged. “It’s a good school. Plus, I’ll already know someone who goes there.” She nudged his elbow with her toes.

A sort of panic started to rise inside him. Winnie was making plans for her future, plans that might include him. She was thinking of joining him in England and he could almost see it, a little patch of sunny prairie warming him in the chill fog. But, like fog, the idea lifted and he recalled who he was.

 Will Holmes was the kind of person one could build a life with. But he wasn’t Will. He was Sherlock, with his racing mind and biting words and terrible habits.

Their summers together were like a bubble in reality, the place where he could disengage and step into the skin of someone else to walk around with new eyes that saw the world better than he ever could.

It was beautiful, but ephemeral. The only reason he’d let himself into the experience was because he knew it would end. Like seeing Haley’s comet, a small point of light streaking across the sky only to disappear beyond the horizon. For once he felt compelled to marvel at life.

Sherlock cleared his throat when he realized she was looking up at him expectantly. “You should… if you want to.”

She smiled up at him. “Really? And you wouldn’t mind bumping into me between classes?” she was nudging him with her toes again and biting her lip suggestively.

He chuckled nervously “Not at all.” He did what Will Holmes would do, he swallowed down every thought that flooded the forefront of his mind, silenced every alarm bell, and pulled her to his side.

The horizon was purpling with the setting sun; he was grasping the girl in his arms, rocking on the porch swing. In his mind he chanted ‘just a moment longer.’

Their correspondence fell by the wayside when he returned to England, schoolwork increased for them both and Sherlock’s “casual” drug use began to take over more and more of his life. He’d added heroine to his rotation of substances. Soon, nearly all of his free time was devoted to scoring drugs or getting high.

He was a mess that year at Christmas. Dorsey picked him up in Harley’s truck alone, her morning sickness was playing havoc and she didn’t feel up to driving, or being in a car, or moving further than 10 feet from a toilet.

Sherlock shook his head and laughed.

“What?” Dorsey asked.

“Nothing” He answered “Just thinking about something funny Winnie said.” He took out a cigarette, lighting it, and cracking the window.

“This whole thing is just… fucked, man.” Dorsey sighed, resting his head against the steering column while they were stopped at a red light.

“What is?” Sherlock asked, flicking ashes out the window.

“This. Harley pregnant, I’m failing school. Dad says I can’t quit my job if I’m going to keep staying with him. Harley won’t let me smoke around her because it’s bad for the baby. Jesus Christ, I’m going to have a baby!” He groaned in frustration before turning to look at Sherlock.

He groaned again loudly before slamming his fist on the steering wheel and snapping up to look at Sherlock, “Wanna go get fucked up?”

Sherlock raised his brow at the question but didn’t reject it out of hand.

“You brought stuff with you, right? I know you did.” Dorsey pressed.

Sherlock never went home for Christmas. He and Dorsey hid out at the old abandoned house, getting high until Sherlock’s stash ran dry, then decided to take a road trip to Dallas to score more.

They didn’t even make it over the state lines. Harley had reported the truck stolen and they both found themselves in county waiting to be bailed out by their furious parents. 

They managed to hide the fact that the reason for their escape was for drugs. Their reasons didn’t seem to matter when Harley slapped Dorsey across the face. Sherlock caught Winnie’s expression as she turned to follow her family outside to retrieve Harley’s truck. She was hurt, betrayed.

He was supposed to be with her, wearing awful jumpers and trying to steal kisses under the mistletoe, pretending not to hate every gift he opened. That’s what Will Holmes did. Not sitting in a cold jail cell trying not to let it show that he was starting to experience symptoms of withdrawal.

Sherlock was taking himself back, piece by piece. Part of him grieved the loss, another part rejoiced in it.

His parents couldn’t bear to look at him, immediately loading him onto a plane back to London, where Mycroft awaited him with threats and ultimatums.

 

* * *

 

 

He was being far less difficult than usual, even letting her coax him into nibbling on a beignet with less than the average amount of argument.

The food was steadying him. Molly watched as the ritualistic manner in which he ate and drank seemed to comfort him. As he methodically took the pastry apart with his fork, words just began tumbling uninhibited from his mouth.

Molly could do nothing but listen as he recounted his younger days here, filling in little data points of his timeline.

 Despite the sordid nature of some of it, she felt comfort at the knowledge that Sherlock Holmes, had indeed, been a child once. A child who made rash and foolish decisions that gave him regret in adulthood. She saw a more human side of the man before her then she ever thought she would.

“After that first bender, Dorsey spiraled. He’s spent his life in and out of jails and rehabs.” Sherlock explained, sipping at the coffee Molly had ordered to insure that Sherlock’s perfect storm of loads of alcohol and no food didn’t have this restaurant at its nexus.

“Winifred blamed me. I always thought… I mean, I assumed Des did too…”

She took a moment to digest everything Sherlock had told her, scanning his expression as she thought. She exhaled, finally arriving at something to say. “It wasn’t your fault, Sherlock.”

He flinched at her words in a way that made Molly immediately regret saying them.

 “Of course, it’s not.” His voice was hoarse and quiet, “I know it’s not. Cognitively, I know it, yes. Dorsey had all the markers of an addict; it was only a matter of time before he fell into the habit of something. But…”

He took another drink from his coffee, quieting a tremor that was vibrating through him. “It should not have been me. To give him the final push. He was my… friend.” He gave a shuddering breath and snapped up to meet her eyes, “Why was it me? Why is it _always_ me?”

Molly bit her lip, her eyes watering slightly with tenderness for him as he searched her face for some form of vindication only she could offer.

“We make our own beds, Sherlock, bedfellows and all.” She took his hand and gave it an affectionate squeeze. “You were already drowning; you couldn’t do what was best for you, let alone someone else. And besides… you were just a kid yourself.”

Sherlock inhaled sharply, eyes darting around. He nodded, unable to meet her gaze so he busied himself with getting their waiter’s attention. It was well past time for the check after all. Their waiter stalled as he passed their table puzzling at Sherlock’s request for their bill.

“Oh I thought he told you. I saw him come by to talk to you. The Senator already covered it.”

Senator, she knew it.

Their eyes darted to the corner where the Senator still sat, offering a nod and a smile. Sherlock nodded back, rising to his feet with surprising steadiness, given his state. He offered his hand to Molly and helped her to her feet. She gave Senator Mankiller a meek wave as they exited.

Another cab was already waiting for them when they stepped out, she didn’t know when he’d had time to do that. The rhythmic noises of the road combined with the long day caused Molly to tire, nodding slightly with fatigue before being jolted by a bump in the road. It must have happened again because she closed her eyes one moment, and seemingly the next she was being nudged awake by Sherlock telling her that they’d arrived.

Somehow she’d fallen on him, using his shoulder as a pillow. She wasn’t sure how long Sherlock had let her doze there but she was grateful to discover that it hadn’t been long enough for her to start drooling on him.

After guiding (half-carrying) her out of the car, he swept her through the doors and over the lobby to the front desk. It took seconds to get their keys, and only moments longer to reach their room. Molly barely had time to register the homey décor, as homey as a place could appear with art deco stained glass light fixtures and overstuffed baroque furniture.

She heard a key card swipe and a door open and suddenly she was being pulled into their room.

Sherlock took no time, shedding his shoes, trousers, and shirt, climbing into the first bed in sight and diving onto the pillows.

Molly smiled at the sight of Sherlock cocooning himself in blankets, longing to join him, but took time instead to look around. There was a large bed and a sitting area, a door that lead off to what was probably the shared bathroom of the suite.

She entered the bathroom assuming there would be a door inside leading to her own room. There was no such door. No suite, ergo only one bed. She wracked her brain on what that could mean.

It was not a terribly infrequent occurrence that she and Sherlock shared a bed, but that was at her flat in London. Did he mean for her to make up a bed for herself on the sofa? She peered through the door, catching a sliver of him lying in repose, already snoring softly. He’d kept tightly to his own side, leaving plenty of room for her. Molly knew from experience that he had a tendency to sprawl.

Whatever, she was exhausted and the cushy bed looked gorgeously comfortable, even without the addition of certain scrummy detectives. It was decided. She would share the bed and if Sherlock made a fuss he could bloody well lump it.

She closed the door once again; content to carry out her ablutions when she’d discovered the staff already had her toiletries laid out neatly for her.  She washed her face, brushed her teeth and her hair before shutting off the light and returning to the bedroom in her shirt and knickers.

She settled in beside Sherlock gently, not wishing to wake him. As she reached over to pull the chain on her bedside lamp she felt a hand on her waist.

“Thank you Molly.” She heard him murmur.

“What for?” Molly asked, pulling the chain, bathing them in blackness. The hand remained but she felt it move up to her ribs and his voice at her neck.

“For being here, with me… I-I couldn’t…”

“Shhh…Go to sleep, Sherlock.” She patted his hand with her own, settling beside him. She had to stop him from saying what he was going to say, from telling her he couldn’t have done this without her. There were only so many platitudes, so many sentiments; her heart could take from a man who claims to disavow them. She stared unseeing in the dark above her, head swirling.

A niggling thought began to take root. That this case was not about the case, but about some kind of cathartic experience Siger felt Sherlock needed. Mycroft’s involvement only supported her hypothesis that there was something of a more secretive nature taking place. This was the Holmes family, of course. She wondered if Sherlock knew.

What was she thinking? Of course he did.

She slowly twisted her body to face him. Her eyes had adjusted to the low light and she could just make the outline of his jaw. She stroked the back of her fingers over the dip of his cheekbone. He must have known the entire time.

The only question was ‘Why now?’ If she understood the situation correctly there had been (and likely would be again) many opportunities for him to use the tribe’s fight to hold their lands as an excuse to bring Sherlock to reconcile with the Mankillers.

Why this time? And why did Sherlock agree to it?

She felt him stirring slightly, perhaps she was thinking too loudly. He’d complained about that before.

 She shut her eyes again and forced away any thoughts that would prove an encumbrance to sleep. She concentrated on Sherlock’s breathing, matching his pace with her own and soon she found herself drifting off.

 

* * *

 

 

The smell of food woke her; she rose slowly from under the bedding like a mummy from an old horror film.  Sherlock arranged himself quickly, ensuring that the plush hotel robe he wore covered the essentials. He straightened his paper and tore his eyes away from her as she stood, her bare legs exposed.

She didn’t bother covering, even though Sherlock made sure to lay the second robe across the foot of the bed. She was too groggy to notice and instead hobbled half-naked toward the table where room service had laid out their breakfast spread.

She made a beeline toward the coffee, and without his even asking, topped off his cup while she made her own. She snatched various food items onto a little plate before settling across from him at the small table. With her cup of very milky coffee, two strips of bacon and half a grapefruit arranged around her, she seemed ready to address him.

“Good morning.” Her voice was still thick with sleep, stabbing a spoon through the flesh of the grapefruit.

“Mmm” He responded noncommittally, taking a grateful sip from his fresh cup of coffee.

Another long sip and a bite of grapefruit strengthened her to speak again, this time with a clearer voice. “What’s on the agenda today?”

Sherlock looked up from his paper. He’d been trying to think of an answer to that all morning. “Nothing too groundbreaking, I’m afraid. Errands, shopping, that sort of thing”, He answered dispassionately.

“It seems my original estimate of being at the resort by last night was a bit ambitious. But I was operating on faulty data. I couldn’t have anticipated how poorly appointed your wardrobe was for this task.”

Molly nodded, giving a look of apology, no wrong direction! It hadn’t been his intention to make her feel guilty.

“Also, the rental will be arriving today.” He added, backtracking somewhat. Molly made a sound of acknowledgement into her coffee.

Molly ate quietly, and a second cup of coffee later, she gathered her used plate and cutlery into a little stack on the table before exiting to take a shower. She gave him an affectionate pat on his shoulder as she passed.

He dressed while she was taking care of her morning routine, receiving a call notifying him the car rental company had arrived with the model he’d requested. He greeted the man delivering the car in the lobby, pocketing the keys and signing a form before following out to see it.

His phone chimed.

Where did you go?  
-Mx

Outside. Come and see.  
-SH

A moment later she was joining him in the car park, her damp hair soaking into the fabric of her t-shirt.

“What the hell is that, a tank?!” She half-shouted as she approached the massive vehicle nearly taking up two entire spaces.

Sherlock blinked, looking back at it and then at her, “No. It’s a four by four.” He answered almost defensively.

“And a real beauty too…” The car rental associate enthused, patting the bonnet affectionately. “Again, sorry about the wait, you know how it is. Out-of-towners rent these things to go off-roadin’, muddin’, general purpose joy-ridin’. By the time they return ‘em, the damn things have been to hell and back.”

Sherlock nodded, but looked away briefly with what appeared to be a guilty expression, but tamed it away before plastering on his fake smile to dismiss the associate. While that was being dealt with Molly circled the truck, her mouth gaping.

“It’s a bit… big. I see that now.” Sherlock commented quietly when she arrived at his side after a slow disbelieving pass around the truck’s body.

“More than big, it’s enormous!” Oh dear, her voice was breathy and high as it sometimes got when she was frustrated with him. “This is why you were making such a fuss last night? For this?”  She jerked her thumb in the direction of the truck but her expression was unreadable.

He couldn’t tell if she was angry or asking out of curiosity but his mouth went ahead of his brain and he answered, “Yes?”

She cut her eyes to the side, glancing at the massive vehicle of polished black and shining chrome. Something flashed in her eyes, an idea, she watched her as she chased it mentally. Her eyes seemed to scan across the body of the tremendous black machine before arriving back at Sherlock’s face.

Her eyebrow was raised and her grin was impish. She bit her lip, clearly fighting a swell of excitement as she asked, “Do I get to drive it?” 

Oh it was a struggle not to return her smile, but he made a valiant effort of it. Though, he couldn’t stop a tiny curl at the corner of his lips when he acted on his compulsion to ask, “Off-roading, mudding, or general purpose joy-riding?”

“Yes please!” Eyes widening, she answered excitedly, bouncing on her toes her hands clutched at her chest.

Well that was unfair. How was he meant to not smile at that? He managed to talk himself out of laughing, thankfully. He’d have to remember that he was here to work. Concentrating on the work is how he managed to keep his lawless emotions in check, but all this mucking about with showing Molly a nice time was throwing him off.

So far his attempts to assure Molly’s enjoyment of the trip were failing spectacularly. He couldn’t be sure, but it seemed very unlikely that humiliating personal confessions did not fall within the sphere of things people enjoyed on holiday.

“Perhaps we can tick that box when we’ve closed the case. We will be in need of some equipment so the extra space is… useful.” It was the truth, mostly, because the word he’d used was ‘useful’. If he had said ‘necessary’ well… that would have been a lie.

The petite woman nodded, beaming with a thrill that Sherlock’s pragmatism could not abate. Perhaps this showing Molly a good time assignment was going better than he’d assumed.

There was a gap in the conversation when it seemed the both of them were waiting for the other to speak. Impatient as always, Sherlock jangled the keys in his palm and cleared his throat. “Well…?”

Molly’s eyes flicked from the gigantic truck back to Sherlock’s expectant gaze.

“Hmm?” she asked dazedly.

“Is there a specific reason we’re out here burning daylight when we have things to do?” He jangled the keys again, illustratively.

“Oh right…” She gestured back toward the hotel with her thumb, “I’ll just…” She was silenced by his hand wrapped around her wrist, drawing it up toward him. If she hadn’t known better, she would have assumed that he meant to kiss her hand just then.

He proved her reasoning sound when she felt a sharp snap at her wrist from his rather impatient removal of the hair tie that circled it. “No need to fuss with your hair. You’re just going to put it up anyway.”

She snatched her hand away, taking the little fabric covered band with it. “You don’t know that! And anyway, maybe I wanted to put on a little…”

“Nope!” He cut her off. “No point in make-up. It’s an unmarketable time-suck. You’ve already completed your moisturizing routine and your hair is half air-dried already. You didn’t pack your flat-iron; I don’t know what it is you think you think you can do with it now. You may as well not waste time fiddling about with it if you’re just going to feel self-conscious all day anyway.”

Molly gusted out a harsh but resigned sigh. He was right but did he have to be so right, so often?

“Fine!” She answered in brusque resignment, pushing past him toward the passenger’s side door, pausing to snap him in his upper arm with the hair tie as she passed. The temptation presented by his short sleeves was far too great for her to resist.

He hissed in response, more out of surprise than pain. “That was unnecessary!” he announced, trailing behind her, pressing the unlock button on the electronic key fob.

“Was it worth it to get me in the truck that much faster?” She asked, opening the door, pulling a face at the large step she would need to scale in order to seat herself within the cab.

“It was.” She felt him speaking behind her before she heard him. She gasped lightly at the feel of his large hands at her waist, hoisting her into the cab as easily as a sack of groceries.

Molly huffed; he could feel her ribs expanding under his fingertips as she climbed into the cab and seated herself in the passenger side.

“I feel like I’m in the cockpit of a plane.” She said after he’d circled the truck and joined her on the driver’s side. “Now all you need is a bumper sticker that says ‘Molly is my Co-Pilot’” she quipped.

Sherlock gave her a puzzled look but said nothing. She was, undoubtedly, making another in her long string of references that sailed right over his head. He merely raised his brow, turning the ignition of the truck. It growled to life, causing Molly to giggle in surprise.

Pulling away from the hotel offered their first good look at the city they’d arrived in the night before. Things had changed quite a bit since the days of his adolescence, but what was more surprising was how it was the same.  

New businesses had cropped up and the local beautification council had clearly taken a serious interest in maintaining a certain small town aesthetic, despite the rapid growth of the metropolis. The influx population spoke of a city that had been spared the brunt of the country’s economic downturn.

He didn’t like to think of himself as someone who romanticized anything, let alone the idylls of youth. Yet he found himself experiencing a certain… aching, perhaps something akin to nostalgia, but with a sting of sadness.

As a teenager this place seemed so small, oppressively so. Tight and rubbing uncomfortably with every step, that was before he knew to appreciate the smallness of things. He’d since learned that small could also mean secure. He slanted his eyes in the direction of the woman beside him.

Small things could offer great comfort.

Of the three of them, he and the twins, Sherlock was by far the most traveled. But at the time he’d only really been to his own childhood home, summer hols to Brighton, and school. Oklahoma was really the most “exotic” place he’d set foot to ground.

He’d become a rather worldly adult since that time, having travelled around the globe, destinations on every continent, save for Antarctica. He didn’t know then what he knows now; that every place is mostly the same. Full of people, some good, some bad, but usually mediocre and content to stay that way, he was forced to abandon the idealistic “someplace else”.

Someplace else where everything is better, everyone is better.

After returning here from hundreds of someplace elses, a fear began to settle in his mind like dust. Perhaps that someplace else had been here and he was too ignorant and blinded by his own youthful hubris to notice.

Now it had changed, it would never be the place it was to him again. It had grown, and so had he. He couldn’t place why it made his heart sink to think about.

But, on the other hand, the more cosmopolitan turn the city had taken made it easier to show Molly a fine time. He’d have to try and squeeze in another few excursions before he had to begin focusing on the case.

“Sherlock”

Oh, she was talking to him. How long had he been silent? His tendency to phase out completely was a behavior that received frequent and boisterous criticism. _A bit not good_ , Mind Palace John noted.

“Sherlock, where are we going?” He blinked, processing her question. “Ah, yes, well we require equipment.”

“Ah yes. You’ve said, hence the chrome mammoth.” She gestured to the cab around her. “What sort of equipment? Is there a black ops gear supply shop nearby? Am I going to get a Rambo knife? Ooh! Night vision goggles?”

He openly chuckled at that. It was unrealistic for anyone to expect him not to. “This is far from a black ops situation. Quite far, in fact”, he added so as to assuage any concern for her personal safety. But then she did something completely unexpected.

She sighed. A short disappointed little puff of breath, jutting out her lower lip as she did. “Well, I supposed I should be glad. So what will we be doing?”

She was disappointed in the lack of danger. Fascinating.

“A foreign oil corporation, United Petrol, is trying to purchase their land out from under them by pushing through some amendment to the imminent domain laws. It’s all a bunch of tedious nonsense about lobby groups and conflicts of interest. But I’m to prove that they have already begun illegal construction. Which they have, it’s been proven by the tribe already.”

“So then why are we here?” Molly asked, confused. 

“They’d tried this strategy before. The corporate response was to issue a gag order, claiming libel and disavowed knowledge of the construction of, what appeared to be, a well site. I’m just meant to merely act as a rubber stamp to verify the evidence. My status as a third party insures my findings would be regarded as objective, unbiased.”

“And I’m sure it doesn’t hurt that you’re white.” Molly muttered derisively.

Sherlock nodded, his eyes clapped on the road ahead. “Yes, there is an undeniably racist odour to the whole affair.”

She shook her head. “They try to steal the tribe’s land out from under them, trespass and cause a hazardous wreck, of course they’re biased. Why wouldn’t they be? It’s a fair bias.”

“That it is. Our job is to scout the construction areas; there have been sightings of crews returning to the abandoned well sites. We need to gain evidence of new construction and prove they are employed by United Petrol.”

“And the resort is a cover. We’re posing as adventure-seeking tourists, indulging in a bit of hiking and canoeing?” Molly filled in.

“That is an advantage. Although I think the choice of the War Eagle had more to do with my father’s addlepated sentiment. He seems to be of the opinion it’s an experience that can be inspired in me.” He admitted with a sigh.

Molly looked over at him wordlessly, her wide eyes narrowing to a focus, pinning him. He couldn’t help but think of one other person who was capable of doing this to him. After so long apart they would be seeing each other again. The thought nearly made him choke.

She tried to hide it, but there it was. The tiniest lift of her brows, a practically unnoticeable micro expression told him she wasn’t sure Siger was off his mark.

“Don’t worry. If you think you might get sentimental, I’ll slap you to bring you out of it.” Molly cocked her head, a lop-sided grin spreading across her face.

Just like that, he took a deep breath, swallowing back the forming lump. “God knows you’ve earned the right.” He fired back, mirthfully.

“Lucky for you, I saved up most of your slaps for when you really need them.” She replied sweetly, flashing with a brilliant smile as she reached across to pat his knee.

His large hand lowered over her petite one, trapping it beneath his palm. It seemed to act of its own accord, curling his fingers around her hand. “Lucky for me” He repeated.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fun little plot detour. Hope you enjoy.

He didn’t take her to a boutique or some chic shop to supplement her wardrobe, thank God. Instead they were at an outdoor sports store, guiding a trolley ahead of him, as he loaded in vest tops, t-shirts, lightweight hoodie and a few pairs of shorts, outfitted with the large cargo pockets. A pack of thick socks later and she found him directing her toward the aisles of shoes.

Unlike the clothes he had, selected without so much as one word of input from her, for this, it seemed he required her cooperation. He plucked a box down from the shoe display, shaking it in her face. “I don’t think I’m incorrect in assessing that these are your size. Of course, it’d be better for you to try them on first.”

He gave the box another little shake to break her from her daze. She huffed, snatching the box and lifting a single dark brown leather hiking boot out of the cardboard. As she was struggling with the long laces of the shoes, Sherlock impatiently stood up and left to get the attention of a shop worker.

She got both shoes on and took a few test steps. They fit perfectly, annoyingly perfectly. She had really hoped she could have one thing to complain about to punish him for how high handed he'd been lately, and always.

She returned to the bench, resigned to replace the shoes back in the box and inform Sherlock that he was correct, as usual, but she found herself waiting alone for several minutes. Another few minutes had Molly sincerely wondering (read: worrying) that Sherlock had abandoned her there; perhaps he’d thought she was still following him, or forgot her altogether.

She arose from where she was seated, replacing her own shoes and tucking the box of boots under her arm, determined to search for Sherlock. It didn’t take her long, however. All she had to do was follow the only sounds of commotion in the store. She turned the corner down another aisle to find Sherlock arguing with a shop worker… over a canoe.

“I didn’t ask for your input, I said I wanted you to sell me that canoe. That is your job isn’t it?” She heard him bellowing to an apathetic employee in his early twenties. He leaned into the young man’s face, not too close, just enough of an invasion to be intimidating.

“You can’t afford to lose this job. University tuition in this country is an insane joke, as it is you’ll be up to your eyeballs in student debt you won’t begin to be able to pay down with a degree in communications. Now, if I were you I would be scurrying to do as I ask before I have a mind to speak with someone more senior.”

The boy looked skewered, standing there stunned like a pinned insect, the typical response to the Sherlock Holmes experience. “How-How did you-?”

Sherlock gave a labored sigh and looked at the lad as if he were the most tiresome thing he’d ever seen; tax documents, Mycroft’s office, and West End shows with his mummy all stacked up where the young man stood.

He seemed to take the hint, for when he regained his ability to move he stammered out with, “Yeah… I’ll just…” and walked away, presumably to see about Sherlock’s desperately needed canoe.

“Bravo.” Molly announced as she approached him.

He paused, narrowing his eyes at her. “Are you being sarcastic?”

“A bit, yeah. Stellar human interaction, that was.” She jerked her thumb in the direction the shop worker disappeared.

“He assumed I was going to buy it just to use it and return it.” He explained nonchalantly.

“Well you’re not keeping it, obviously.” Molly shrugged. It was a fair assumption for someone in that young man’s position to make.

“How is that obvious?” He snapped back.

“Uhm… For starters, how would you get it back to London? Furthermore, where would you even keep it? And finally… why? Just why?”

“I didn’t say I was taking it back to London. My parents still have a home here. I would keep it there, obviously.”

“You’re buying your elderly parents a canoe?” She asked, just to clarify of course.

He sighed. “No, just a canoe to have if anyone happens to be there who would like to make use of a canoe.” His answer was a little bit too defensive.

Molly gave a knowing smile. “Already planning your next holiday then?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes but didn't deny it, choosing instead to deflect. “Did the shoes fit?” Evidently that was enough of that.

“You know they do.” She admitted, begrudgingly.

“Then come along.” He turned on his heels making long strides away from her, causing her to scramble to follow.

 

* * *

 

 

Torches, binoculars, life vests, a cooler that was at least half the size of her actual fridge back home, and of course her clothes and that damned canoe were being loaded into the truck. Even with the canoe secured inside the bed with bungee cord, there was still quite a bit of room remaining. Molly elected to say nothing of it.

“So… lunch?” He looked up at her after they had both secured their seat belts.

“Are you asking if I’m familiar with the concept?” with a bit of side-eye.

She could practically feel his eye roll. “Molly, you know perfectly well I am offering to take you to lunch.”

Molly chuckled quietly. “I am both, familiar with the concept of lunch and willing to participate in it with you.” She cocked her head toward him, offering a silly grin.

“Peachy.” He muttered, although his slips slanted slightly with a grudging smirk.

He took her to a little café/wine bar called Tallgrass. Yet another uncomfortably nice restaurant she was entirely under dressed for. Sherlock did not seem to take notice of her discomfort but did offer an opinion on what he thought she should order, despite the fact that would not be ordering anything for himself.

She defied his recommendation of the Miso Pork Bahn Mi in favour of the Summer Carbonara Mac and Cheese, although the banh mi did sound very good. Sherlock had gotten his way far too many times today. If it meant ordering her second choice on the menu to take him down a peg, it was a small price to pay.

They sat largely in silence, him engrossing himself on his phone while she quietly picked at her mac and cheese. He took care of the check while she was in the loo and before long they were back in the truck, heading back toward the hotel. She was fairly certain it had been the shortest meal out she’d ever experienced with another person. This is probably how it would have gone last night, had Sherlock not been ambushed by his past.

The fact that they didn’t have many things to gather, and that it wouldn’t have taken them long at any speed, did not prevent Sherlock from being snappish and rushing about like they were on the lam.

Molly found his anxious pace exhausting. She recalled Mary mentioning something about him wishing she and John’s wedding faster so it would be over sooner. Maybe that was happening here. She knew there was an inevitable confrontation ahead of him. One he’d deny he’d been dreading for years.

In moments she was loading her half-empty suitcase into the cab of the truck with the sacks of new clothes. While he checked them out of the very posh hotel they’d spent the night in. She supposed the best thing for her to do was to follow his lead.

If rushing to get it over with was what he needed to help him cope, well she supposed her only option was to try and keep up.

“Ready?” She asked as he joined her in the cab, mostly because she felt like she needed to say something

“Of course I’m ready. I’m always ready.” He sniffed, he started the engine, checking behind him as he began to back out of their parking space. When he snapped his head back forward Molly’s hand was right in front of his face, flicking him on the end of the nose.

“Damn it, Molly!", he cupped his hand over his eye-wateringly stinging nose.

“You weren’t ready for that, were you?” she giggled.

He slanted his eyes in her direction, “Cheap shot." he mumbled.

"I buy them in bulk." She quipped, prompting another eye roll from the detective.

A moment stretched out between them as they fell into the, almost hypnotic, act of watching a city unfold before them as they serpentine through the streets. 

Perhaps it was the warmth of sunlight, unfiltered by clouds, but his expression was unexpectedly gentle. The sharp contours of his face were softened by yellow glow. His unusually casual attire gave him an air of nonchalance she suspected was less than genuine.

His dark curls had been painstakingly crafted into a fashionable muss, his usual bespoke suit replaced with a Robin's egg blue short-sleeved button-down tucked into khaki trousers cuffed at the ankles, sockless beneath his navy blue boat shoes. She was almost entirely entranced by him until a sharp turn and squealing tires had her scrambling for leverage. 

“Quick detour.” He explained to Molly as she was huddled in the far corner of her seat gripping the handle above her, trying to catch her breath.

“Are you trying to kill us?” She shouted.

“There’s something you need to see. You’ll like it. Trust me.”

And just like that she agreed. All he had to do was ask her to trust him. Another turn and his destination was in sight. The concrete circle, surrounded by a brick walkway and various planters, was quite nondescript. An abandoned bridge over train tracks were in sight just beyond.

He parked, clicking out of his seatbelt hurriedly, not waiting for her to follow. He hopped out of the cab and began walking briskly forward.

He paused as he grew nearer to the spot, turning back to see Molly catching up to him. He took her by the hand when the gap between them closed, walking her toward the circle.

Once they were close enough that one step would find them entering the circle, he stopped her. “Molly. I know you all assume I believe myself to be the center of the universe.”

“What?” Molly’s brows were pinched in confusion as she looked around her, taking in the plain and completely inconspicuous looking surroundings.

“That doesn’t mean I cannot appreciate those who choose to orbit around me.” He looked down at the large circle on the ground before them, indicating she should do the same. There were words pressed into the concrete.

“Sonic center of the universe…” She read aloud.

“Care to join me in the center of the universe?” He asked while pulling her into the circle.

“Sherlock, what is this-whoa!” She exclaimed as her voice echoed strangely around her as she stood within the confines of the circle on the ground.

“This place is an acoustic anomaly.” He explained, his voice reverberating around her, making the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end while she tamped down a frisson running up her spine.

“How does this work?” Molly tried whispering, but her voice still shook through them.

“There has been no scientific consensus, although the anomaly has been studied many times. A popular theory is that there is a unique parabolic effect that takes place between the abandoned bridge and circular planter walls.”

She clutched at the hem of her shorts as the warm waves of his rich voice crashed over her from within the circle. Her shoulders were hunched, her head bowed as she listened to him speak, his voice shaking her as if they were inside a bell while they were stood out in the open air.

His breath by her ear added another level of sensation to the experience. “Step out of the circle.” He instructed with a soft murmur that swirled around her like a ghost. She nodded, blushing and stepping beyond the confines of the circle.

“Can you hear me?” She thought she heard him say, she gathered it more from the movement of his lips than the actual sound of his voice, which sounded as though it was coming from inside of a bottle.

Molly’s eyes widened, shaking her head and shouting “Barely!”

He was laughing openly at her gawking, although she couldn’t really hear it for reasons apparently no one could clearly explain.

He reared his head back, shouting something that looked remarkably like “SHITBLOODYCOCKSUCKERMOTHERFUCKERBUGGERINGCUNTARSEBITCH!” and then he followed that with “MYCROFT WEARS A GIRDLE!” before doubling over, red in the face with laughter.

Molly crossed her arms over her chest, shaking her head disapprovingly while turning a breathless blue in her attempt to stymie her own laughter.

“Did you get that out of your system?” She managed to sigh out but he only cocked his head as if he hadn’t caught what she’d said.

She sighed again, still smiling, squaring off so he could see her better before repeating, with better enunciation, “I said, did you get that out of your system?”

He blinked, uncomprehendingly at her again, looking down at the ground. There was nothing but a scant few meters and the open air between them but it felt like there was an invisible barrier.

If Molly had been in a poetic frame of mind she might have seen a metaphor of the man she adored standing at the center of the universe, shouting to be understood while struggling to understand those around him.

Their eyes met, his gaze was soulful and oddly vulnerable. His mouth opened, lips moving with words she could not make out from outside the mysterious circle.

She furrowed her brows, shaking her head to indicate she hadn’t understood. Instead of making a second attempt at being heard from within the anomaly, he closed the gap between then pulling her back into the center of the circle with him.

“I said…” Dear Lord it was like standing under a waterfall made of his voice. “I’m glad you’re here, Molly.”

She peered up at him, eyes wide in surprise. She allowed him to pull her closer to him by her arms.

“Should I slap you now?” She muttered at his chest.

He let out a breathy laugh. “I’m not getting sentimental, Molly.” He took her hand while another slid around her waist. She couldn’t resist the instinct to wrap her arms around his neck and sway into him.

“Oh I don’t know. You’re slow dancing with me at the center of the universe. That’s some Doctor Who level sentimental cheese, Mr. Holmes.”

“Do what you must, Dr. Hooper.” He leaned down to kiss her low on her cheek, nearly to the corner of her mouth. Her eyes shut, breath hitching as his soft lifts brushed the edge of hers.

She huffed. “That’s not fair. You can’t ask me to slap you when you’re being all…” She flailed her hands between them.

He raised a curious brow at her while she searched for her words.

“all.. sweet!” She gave a little pout.

“Mmm” Sherlock rumbled. “Traitor.” He draped and arm across her shoulder, turning them back toward the truck but pausing to kiss the tip of her nose affectionately.

“Never send a Molly Hooper to do a John Watson’s job. John would never have declined an opportunity to hit me in the face. No matter how… sweet I may be.” It was a sort of regrettable relief when they had stepped out of the circle and his voice no long circled her like a prowling predator.

“Oh are you especially sweet to John?” She jibed.

“Lord no.” He laughed, running his hand through his hair nervously. No, of all the people in his life John was the one who bore the brunt of his prickishness. Contrary to popular belief Sherlock was perfectly aware of what a shit he was most of the time.

“Although, that may earn me a smack in the face much quicker than my typical behavior would.”

Molly chuckled. She couldn’t argue with that sound analysis. “So what’s next on the agenda for today?”

Her asking about the next task on their list made him stiffen, his arm fell away from over her shoulder, effectively ending the moment. “We are due at the Tribal Council to meet with Chief Mankiller.”

She fell behind as she paused, considering his statement. The change was almost instantaneous, his shoulders were ever so slightly hunched, his head dipped.

“You should probably just call her Winifred.” Molly offered. “Or Miss Mankiller, if you feel the need to be formal.”

“It’s Missus. Her husband took her last name when they married.” He noted.

“Ah. How progressive! I wouldn’t have given up that last name either. Especially as a chief, it’s very intimidating.”

“Oh you have no idea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had this mostly finished chapter camping out here in the drafts for a while. That's how unmotivated I've been feeling lately. So sorry, guys.

**Author's Note:**

> So this is a bit of the calm before the storm. Things will get more interesting in later chapters, I promise. The character Winifred Mankiller is drawn directly from a real life childhood hero of mine, and the "W" in the book "Rad American Women A-Z": Wilma Mankiller, first female chief of the Cherokee tribe.


End file.
